Shatter
by Hellie Ace
Summary: Alfred F. Jones is no stranger to war. The Revolution, 1812, Mexico: he has fought valiantly and found only success each time. But with war once again on the horizon, how can Alfred hope to prevail when his enemy is so close to home? Civil War fic. USUK.
1. Chapter 1

**Hello once again, readers! I'll start by giving you your warning:**

**This will be a dark fic with plenty of the grisly details and horrors of the American Civil War. This is your chance to turn back now if you are uncomfortable with certain sensitive materials such as gore, strong language, and mutilation. If not, then enjoy this angst-filled tale of America gone _very_ wrong.**

**This fic will be as historically accurate as humanly possible while still weaving the personified nations into the tale. All historical notes and references will be in the bottom A/N.**

**I want to give a huge thanks to my amazing co-conspirator and beta for this, Kay (ykwyh26). Thanks for putting up with me and my ridiculousness. ;)**

**And with that said, on to the show!**

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><p><em><strong>November 6, 1860.<strong>_

Alfred sighed heavily as he stared out across the beautiful lawn of the White House from the East Room. The sun was descending in the sky, leaving inky blue and purple trails above the trees that decorated the perimeter of the land. In the reflection cast by the lamps that adorned the room, Alfred could clearly see the dark bags under his eyes, flaunting just how worn he was. He ignored it, trying to see past himself.

His troubled, glass-blue eyes watched the sway of the finely trimmed grass under a gust of chill autumn wind while he waited. The young nation was anxiously awaiting the results of the presidential elections. Naturally, it would take some time to gather all the popular votes from across the country, but the Northeastern coast's votes would surely be in by this time along with the Electoral College's votes. That, in and of itself, would give him a clear idea of who the winner of the massive election would be.

All four candidates running worried him. Each one would cause even deeper rifts in the already growing political, economic and moral splits that tore up his bitter lands. The radical pro-Southern candidates worried him the most, but even so, not even the abolitionist parties were what he needed leading his people now. Silently, he mulled over the candidates, trying to work out their pros and cons in his head once more. The usually happily boisterous nation felt a heavy aura come over him when he did so.

John Bell was the first that came to mind. The young nation didn't exactly know what to think of the former Secretary of War. He was flighty with his party backing, and was unexpected in his voting decisions. Not to mention his Pro-Southern attitude. Alfred disliked him. The torn country needed a steady, predictable, and largely backed president.

Alfred began to drum his fingers on the windowsill as he thought of the next candidate: John Breckinridge. The nation loosed a low growl from his throat. He greatly disliked Breckinridge. The man had the support of the tumultuous South for his views and Buchanan's backing along with the rebellious spirit the young nation knew all too well. Alfred suspected he would become a threat with his popularity, if not his prestige from his vice presidency.

The American shook off his angry thoughts, moving to the next candidate on his mental list. The man's name was Stephen Douglas. Alfred's temper calmed. The political giant wasn't necessarily bad, he rationalized. He had helped to keep the country together ten years earlier; Alfred was grateful for that. The man was strong-willed, had more than enough popular backing and generally pleased Alfred with his policies. However, the final candidate had put Douglas into an interesting bind. Alfred smirked.

Abraham Lincoln: the chivalrous Illinois senator. Alfred had watched the man carefully through the Dred Scott case and the raging debates and conspiracies it had formed. He was relatively unheard of up until very recently, but he seemed to be the Republican Party's rising star. The man had a good conscience, Alfred decided, but he still was unsure if he had the popular support needed to keep the country together.

Then again, none of them did. The sectionalism was too great for any sort of unanimous backing. It made the torn nation long for the time before Jackson, when everything was politically well and he had had a few blissful years to relax after all the fighting and bloodshed that had come from his botched struggle for sovereignty. Prior to now had been his two grievous wars with England and after came the war with Mexico. Both brought up bitter memories. He shuddered, recalling the disgusted sneer on Arthur's face at their last meeting to make peace in 1814. Alfred forced himself to swallow those unkind recollections back down. Now wasn't the time for wallowing in the past. The young nation would soon have a new president to greet. He needed to get himself ready to properly meet his sixteenth leader and there was much to be done.

As he rose from his place on the windowsill, a knock reverberated on the East Room's tall door.

"Jones?" A familiar voice sounded from behind the wooden edifice.

"Yes? Enter." Alfred called back, making sure to keep his voice respectfully even.

The now ex-president entered with a faint, knowing smirk on his lips. He leaned on the heavy door, watching Alfred approach.

"How can I help you, Mr. President?" Alfred inquired formally, moving to stand beside the East Room's grand piano.

"I am the former president now, Jones. I came to see if you'd like to know the results of today's election and meet your newest leader?"

"It's done already?" Alfred blurted out with wide eyes.

"Indeed it is. I think you'll be just as interested in the winner as much as I am not. I assume you'll be glad to see me go."

The young nation had to resist the urge to scoff. Oh course Alfred would! He managed to retain his forcibly groomed sense of respectfulness around his ex-leader, but only with a great effort. How James knew about his distaste for the ex-president, Alfred didn't know. Over the years he'd learned not to grow overly attached to his leaders or share much of his personal beliefs with them. Only a select few had earned their way into his heart. It didn't matter now, since they were dead, but still, it bothered the young nation knowing Buchanan knew more than Alfred had voluntarily shared.

Buchanan raised his hand, motioning for the young nation to follow after him with a gesture. Obeying, the blue-eyed American found himself being led through the Cross Hall and into the Entrance Hall.

A tall man stood with a pair of servants chatting beside him. He was lanky, with deep-set, but kind, dark eyes. In his simply tailored suit, Alfred thought he looked like a formidable man: strong and decent. Maybe there was some hope coming out of this terrible election.

The servants dispersed when Buchanan and Alfred neared.

"Jones, meet President Lincoln." The former president announced, stepping aside so that Alfred could properly greet the man. He glanced to Lincoln. "Mr. President, meet the United States of America."

Alfred offered his hand to shake with a pleasant smile. Lincoln stepped up and shook the young nation's hand respectfully.

"It is an honor to meet you, Mr. America." He said in his odd voice, eyes twinkling.

"I'd rather you call me Alfred if you're going to stick around for the next four years." Alfred jested, surprised that the man had a much higher pitched voice than the nation would have expected with a fellow much larger than himself. Alfred tried not to grit his teeth when he noted Lincoln's voice was very lightly peppered with a Southern twang well. Still, his tone was humble and even, and Alfred very much liked that. Ever since Monroe had died he'd been dealing with pompous attitudes and a general discontent from his leaders. The man's genuine smile was a pleasant refresher.

"If you insist." The President said agreeably. "Then I'll have to ask you to call me Abe."

Alfred chuckled, releasing the man's hand with a brilliant smile.

"That I can do, Mr. President. It's ni-"

James had clearly had enough of the pleasantries, as he tried to usher them back towards the Cross Hall with a wave of his hands.

"While I'm sure the president would love to chat with you, Jones, I insist he be given a proper meal before you decide to talk his ears off as you tried with me. Besides, he will have to be given the grand tour as well. You'll have plenty of time to become acquainted, I'm sure."

Lincoln looked as if he might protest in support for Alfred when the young nation flashed a dangerous leer at Buchanan and decided it best he not start something on his first day as President. He patted Alfred's shoulder, offering up an apologetic smile when the ex-president turned to lead them towards the dinning rooms.

Buchanan led them into one of the White House's larger dining rooms. It was nearly five o'clock in the evening and dinner was to be served shortly. Alfred took his customary seat while the servants worked quietly around them.

The grand meal was served efficiently and eaten well. Alfred had always had a hearty appetite and was delighted that Lincoln seemed to match him. Buchanan seemed almost horrified by the two voracious eaters that sat with him. Alfred reveled in that simple fact. Sometimes his stiff leaders and Congressmen were fun to passively harass with his much more informal attitude: something he had adopted from Jefferson himself. He smiled inwardly at the fond memories that the third president stirred up in him.

When the servants had cleared away the dishes, James rose from his seat, pompously adjusting his jowl collar.

"Now then, Mr. President, shall we start the tour?"

"It's well past six, Mr. Buchanan! Give the man a rest!" Alfred interjected. Before the ex-president could respond, Lincoln nodded.

"If you wouldn't mind, I'd like to retire to my bed early. I'm sure that a man like yourself could imagine the long day I've had." He said.

James nodded.

"Very well. I think I shall turn in early as well. Have a decent night's rest, gentlemen." Buchanan dismissed himself properly, leaving Alfred and Lincoln alone in the grand dinning room.

"Alfred," Lincoln started once he was sure Buchanan was well out of hearing distance.

The young nation made a soft noise in the back of his throat to indicate that he was listening. His eyes glimmered with interest as Lincoln adjusted his cuffs as he spoke.

"Would you mind if I spoke with you," he rose from his seat, "privately, that is?"

Alfred felt that same dark, depressing aura from earlier return to dampen his usually cheerful mood. Not even his earlier thoughts of Jefferson could chase away the dismal feeling that suddenly clenched his heart. Lincoln's suddenly somber tone reminded him of the problems he was currently facing. There was no age of Jefferson now, only a growing sectionalist hate.

"Sure. It's part of my job, anyway: advising the President and all." The blue-eyed nation stood, watching Lincoln with anxious eyes. He didn't want to ponder just what the new President wanted to talk about already with that tone of voice. He bit his lip when the other man didn't budge. It was then that he realized Lincoln was looking to him to lead.

"Oh, right." Alfred chuckled mirthlessly. "You don't know where anything is…"

He gestured for Lincoln to follow after him as he entered the broad Cross Hall that attached to the dining room. Taking the back staircase adjoined to the waiting room, he led the new President up to the second floor's West Wing.

Alfred pointed out a few of the rooms and hallways to the quietly observant president.

"Over there," Alfred pointed farther down the hall they had entered, "is the Yellow Oval Room and the Cabinet's Meeting Room."

He pivoted on his heel to direct Lincoln's attention towards the set of doors facing west.

"Those are the Presidential Bedrooms." The nation started forward again, opening the door for Lincoln to enter.

The tall man took a long look around before approaching the far window. Alfred sighed heavily before stepping up to Lincoln's side and leaning his shoulder on the wall. His azure eyes peered out the window into the darkness. He wondered if he ought to prod the new president about what he wanted to speak about. He didn't need to, as Lincoln cleared his throat, clasped his hands behind his back and looked at Alfred. The young nation kept his gaze on the outside world, but felt the other man's dark eyes on him.

"Alfred, I have heard quite a bit about you, and from that I know you understand that this Union is troubled." The dark-eyed man took Alfred's haggard appearance to heart. The young nation had dark crescents under his eyes, and his lips seemed to perpetually twist in a troubled frown.

The nation nodded gravely. It was more than troubled. Alfred could already feel the awful side effects wracking his body as the country's turmoil raged on.

"I do."

"Then understand this, I intend to preserve it by all means. I wish to see the Union held together under a peaceful brotherhood." Lincoln stated. "But there is much to do before I take office. I must return to Springfield tomorrow, but I will return in the spring."

"I am aware," Alfred returned, jamming his hands informally in his pockets, "but I'm glad to hear that you wish for peace. I am tired of war, in all honesty, Abe. I feel like all I've done is fight since I decided to split from Arth- I mean, Britain."

"I can imagine so. I wished to speak with you about my plans but you appear just as tired as I feel. I won't drain you any further. My plans can wait for now. Go and rest, my friend; it is late."

The blond nation was grateful for the kindly dismissal. Unhitching himself from the wall, Alfred moved sluggishly to obey the given advice from his new leader. He strode across the floor; only glancing back to bid Abe a good night, then quietly shut the door behind him.

With a tired sigh, the young nation followed the long central hallway to one of the guest bedrooms in the East Wing. He smiled to himself when the door to his temporary room shut behind him with a faint click. Finally, after spending the entire day stressing about the election, the nation had a chance to unwind.

He tugged off his heavy suit jacket, carelessly dropping it to the ground without a second thought. He loosened his stiff collar with a rough yank before clambering onto the neatly made bed. He was asleep even before he had the chance to kick off his uncomfortable shoes.

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><p><strong><em>December 20, 1860<em>.**

"Mr. America, sir!" One of the White House's many officers shouted frantically for him from the other side of the wide Cross Hall in the Usher's Room.

Alfred wearily looked over to the man. He rubbed his tired eyes with the calloused heels of his palms before crossing the hall.

"What now?" He grumbled. The nation had had a twisted, painful knot in his stomach all day for some foreboding reason and did not want to hear about any more problems. He'd been dealing with secession talks and crises for over a month now. It was wearing heavily on his already frayed nerves.

"Sir, I have terrible news." The officer announced with his head bowed. Alfred sighed heavily.

"I figured as much. What is it now? Has Kansas started bleeding again?" The nation jested darkly.

"No, sir. I've been entrusted to ensure you read this." The man handed an envelope with a broken wax seal set upon it. Alfred took it, removing the contents and unfolding the paper.

The nation read it once, then twice, and then a third time before the words scrawled on the page were finally imprinted in his mind. Alfred sighed heavily, feeling as if a steely knife had just been thrust into his core. This couldn't be happening. _How could this be? _He wondered with despondency.

The blond dismissed the officer before he stashed the letter in his breast pocket with trembling hands.

He looked up to the tall ceiling. The young nation was trying to keep the terrible ache he felt deep in his heart under control. His troubled eyes closed as he loosed an airy sigh before he mumbled to no one in particular:

"So, South Carolina has left the Union…."

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><p><strong>History:<strong>

**Nov. 6th1860 was the day Lincoln was elected out of four other candidates (there were four major parties, as opposed to our two today). Lincoln only had 40% of the popular vote, but 59% of the Electoral College's votes. The Deep South didn't even include Lincoln on their ballots! XD**

**Stephen A. Douglas was probably much more balanced as a candidate, with backing from all regions. However, the Northern populous pretty much determined the vote while the South and West had the ability to tip close elections. It was pretty much that way ever since…. well, ever. The North had always held the majority sway in the country. The South was growing tired of it and fighting back bitterly. I think they really missed the pro-South Jackson Era.**

**The other two didn't really stand a chance, combined they held less than thirty percent of the popular votes.**

**The Dred Scott affair (_Scott v. Sandford_) was the ruling the Supreme Court made in regards to black citizenship. Since slavery had purposely been left out of the constitution (Jefferson had tried to add that no new states could have slavery, but it was denied, since the founding fathers were already having trouble passing the thing in the first place, and didn't want to piss off the South), there was no official way to actually deal with something like this. The court ruled in favor of Sandford, since the court claimed that as a (former) slave, Scott was not a citizen and therefore could not sue a citizen (Sandford). It pretty much sent the entire country into an uproar that started the Lincoln-Douglas debates between the two top presidential candidates.**

**Lots of fights and arguments later, the Civil war broke out… This wasn't a surprise. The issue on slavery had been raging ever since 1776. It died down some with the relatively large progress America made as an independent power. After the Mexican-American War, and the US obtained the Southwest in 1846, it all came boiling back to the surface. Talks of secession went around for about 14 years before finally the South could take no more and the North couldn't come up with any more compromises.**

**James Buchanan was the president before Lincoln and didn't much like Abe. They were polar opposites. James was stiff and formal and mostly aloof, while Lincoln was semi-shy but chivalrous.**

**Yes, Lincoln had a high voice (not squeaky, but I'm sure most Americans picture one of our favorite presidents as deep voiced; no, he was a tenor, but his voice carried very well.) and since he spent nearly all of his speaking time in Kentucky and the way he wrote suggest that he did have a bit of Southern twang.**

**There had been major talks of secession in South Carolina since at least the late 1820s. (I'm not going to get into the extremely lengthy why, but basically SC hated all the measures passed that favored the North and hurt the South. They've always been the 'trouble' state.)**

**South Carolina officially seceded from the Union on Dec 20th, 1860 after a unanimous vote and declared that all measures to reason with the Federal Government had been defeated and that this was their final measure for the liberties they thought they'd been promised in the Constitution.**

**Yes, I imagine Jefferson taught America to be informal. The President greeted foreign diplomats in his slippers and robe for Pete's sake! XD He didn't care. He called himself a 'common man' and thought it was unnecessary to dress like a king to greet anyone. He didn't want anyone to think of the Presidency as a Monarchy (remember, we'd just fought a bloody, hard war to AVOID a leader that acted like a king).**

**Also, I did try to keep the White House structure historically proper. Remember, this was 1860: the Truman restoration had not yet occurred, and the house was considerably blander than it is now. No, Lincoln didn't sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom. It was named that after Truman. If anything, that room might have been a study…maybe, but certainly not a bedroom. Lincoln slept in the present day Master Bedroom.**

**The mention to Kansas bleeding was due to the Kansas-Nebraska Act in 1854. Basically, the Missouri Compromise that said slave states had to stay south and free states had to be north was thrown out the window! Slavers rushed to Kansas to claim the state as a slave state and the Northerns did the same thing to make it free. Basically Kansas became a border-war battleground and trust me, it got ugly (they even had two separate governments at one point: one pro-slavery, one anti-slavery).**


	2. Chapter 2

__**Howdy readers! Just a few extra details about this story: I'm sorry for you state fans, but there will be no state OCs in this. The states are states, with no personifications. Sorry!**

**Also, the update schedule should continue to follow this pattern; I will try to update Shatter every two weeks on Wednesday. The only time this might change is if there's a power outage or some other freak thing to keep me from my computer. **

**Once again, thank you ykwyh26 for beta-ing this and giving me the idea in the first place! ^^**

**Reviews:**

**Kat: Thanks, and you're right; it wasn't 100% of the issue, though it was a large majority. **

**Kay: So help me, God, if your pen name isn't right this time, then I will hang up my keyboard and take up gardening. -_-;**

**Oniongrass: *Shudders* Historical fics without research hurt my heart. =/ But worry not, this fic won't lack information, that's for sure!**

**Trumpet-Geek: Ugh, those long work days are a killer! *sympathetic pat* Glad I found a topic you like! I personally love most American history, so this was actually fun to write. ;)**

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><p><em><strong>January 9, 1861.<strong>_

Alfred pressed his forehead to the cool glass pane of the East Room's broad window with a discontented sigh. His breath left opaque patches of vapor against the chilled surface, but he barely noticed the cold at all. His mind was preoccupied with far more troubling matters.

The last three weeks had been like the nation's own personal Hell. The situation with South Carolina had escalated out of control, leaving Alfred aching with loss. His government's attempts to mend the rift had proven useless so far; it seemed there was no consoling the rebellious state into returning to the Union.

Even James Buchanan had tried to quell the rising storm that was the angry southern state to no avail. His declaring the secession an illegal act against the Union hadn't fazed the South Carolinians at all. It only seemed to rile them up further, creating even more tension.

Of course, Buchanan barking empty threats and then refusing to back them up certainly didn't help the situation. It likely only made it worse: showing South Carolina they were free to do as they pleased. Alfred sneered at the thought.

What really irked the young nation was when Alfred had brought it to his leader's attention. The stiff man had merely brushed it off as if it was nothing more than a speck of dust on his shoulder.

"It's no longer my business." He had said so with a sort of melancholic despair that held absolutely no sympathy towards Alfred. It certainly wasn't easy for the blue-eyed nation to deal with, and naturally, Buchanan couldn't possibly have understood the pain the secession had inflicted on Alfred. It felt as though a piece of him was missing, leaving a hollow ache in his body. His cheery demeanor had vanished with it as well; he could barely bring himself to smile anymore.

Alfred huffed another defeated sigh. It had been a particularly abysmal day for Alfred's mood. The young nation had been feeling an ominous, foreboding aura since he had woken up from his shallow sleep this morning. It only further dampened his already sour attitude after he had stumbled out of bed.

A knock on the East Room's tall door suddenly captured his attention. He glanced over his shoulder before calling for whoever was at the door to enter.

An older officer entered with a despondent look upon his visage. Alfred knew it had to be bad news. He felt his stomach sink with dread as he addressed the man.

"What else could have possibly gone wrong?" The young nation mumbled to no one in particular.

The officer stepped up to him, handing him a folded note. The blond nation noticed that the man's old, wrinkled hands were trembling slightly and that his lip quivered. This news _must _be bad.

He took the note, dismissed the man and waited to open the paper until he heard the door click shut. Swallowing hard, he flipped the letter open.

He only had to read the first few lines for the despair to finally come crashing down upon him**.** Alfred didn't even bother to read the entire declaratory note before he crumpled it up into a ball. He pitched it angrily at the grand piano. It bounced off, rolling innocently to the floor, further angering the young nation.

Alfred clutched at his heart as the familiar pain of loss renewed within him. With a low snarl emitting from his throat, Alfred returned to glaring out the window. He refused to acknowledge his own reflection in the glass and see his hurt expression as he glared out onto the White House Lawns.

Mississippi had left the Union as well….

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><p><em><strong>January 10, 1861.<strong>_

Alfred lay on one of the stiff beds of the White House's guest rooms, staring up absently at the plain ceiling. It was nearing afternoon, but he had been avoiding having to get out of bed to greet the day.

He was utterly exhausted: having been unable to sleep from the previous day's heart-wrenching news. The usual strength and boundless energy he felt were completely gone; they had been drained away, replaced instead with the ache in his heart that had become a familiar pain over the past three weeks.

The young nation groaned when someone knocked on his door. The sound was the very bane of his existence. He opted to ignore it, but whoever was on the other side of the door spoke up.

"Mr. America, sir? Are you awake?" An officer called. He sounded older, making Alfred wonder if it was the same man from the previous day.

The nation ran his fingers through his fallow-gold hair before sitting up in bed. He couldn't feign still being asleep this late in the afternoon.

"I am. You may enter."

The officer did so, though it wasn't the same elderly man as he'd thought.

"Sir, I'm afraid it's bad news."

"It's always bad news these days…" Alfred mumbled despondently. He raised his hand, motioning for the man to bring him the note he held in his calloused fingers.

The officer obeyed, leaving quickly once Alfred dismissed him with an affirming grunt.

With trembling hands, Alfred unfolded the note. Unlike with Mississippi's formal declaration of secession, the young nation read the entire note before he set it on the nightstand table.

Alfred removed his glasses, setting them beside the paper. He lay down on his side, pulling the coverlet up to his chin. He tried not to whimper at the pain that stabbed his heart with this newfound information. The young nation wondered how everything had gone so horribly wrong. Now there really was no reason to get out of bed. He had lost any desire to see outside of the dark, plain guest room for the time being.

Florida was no longer a part of the Union…

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><p><em><strong>January 11, 1861.<strong>_

Alfred found himself snarling when an officer approached him from the Cross Hall. He'd actually made it out of bed today. Spending so much time brooding had left him irate with self-pity and discontent. The anger had boiled over into a fitful energy that had kept him from sleeping yet again. He wondered just what had he done to deserve this?

_Nothing! That's what!_

He barely even registered how terrifying he might have looked to the man trying to do his job with his teeth slightly bared, and his fists clenched tightly.

The man certainly looked intimidated by his nation's aggressive stance, coupled with the icy glare of his blue eyes. Nonetheless, he bravely dared to step up to Alfred. He handed him yet another a folded piece of parchment without a word.

"Let me guess, New York and Massachusetts have decided to leave me as well?" Alfred spat bitterly as he opened the note with enough force to tear the paper slightly.

The man wisely didn't respond, which was likely the only thing that spared him from the young nation's wrath.

"Even better!" Alfred suddenly snarled, tearing the note in half, before smashing the tattered pieces into the officer's chest. The man stumbled back, loosing his balance and falling to the hard floor from the sheer force of Alfred's open palm. He looked as though he might have objected to the rough treatment, but the blond nation was already storming down the Cross Hall.

Alfred entered the East Room, slamming the door shut behind him with enough force to make the entire frame rattle. A candle on the mantle shelf fell to the floor. The wax stick cracked, shattering into pieces, much like how Alfred's heart felt. The blond nation didn't seem to notice the broken candle; he was absorbed in his own spiteful, despairing thoughts.

His irritation from earlier had escalated to despondent fury. The day prior, he'd spent the entire morning, afternoon and evening brooding mercilessly over the loss of yet another state. He hadn't slept at all either, or eaten for that matter. It didn't help to abate his present anger.

He perched on the windowsill, glaring death through the thick windowpane at nothing in particular. He let his thoughts roam to all that was plaguing him.

As he did the pain he felt intensified even further, flaring his temper up. How had this happened? Why wasn't anyone doing anything to stop it? Did they not notice how badly it hurt him? He didn't feel as if anyone did. As a nation, he felt the cumulativeemotions of his people, and no human government official would ever understand that tremendous burden. It certainly weighed Alfred down, and made him feel smothered by the acute anxiety around him.

Alfred scoffed, noting the haggard look on his face in his window reflection.

_I look awful, but I feel __even __worse. _He sighed, leaving a large puff of vapor to cling to the cold window glass.

He tried to let go of his anger, but found only his previous melancholy remained. It was no use; he couldn't dispel the pain of loss he felt yet again.

Alabama had also decided to secede from the Union…

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><p><em><strong>January 19, 1861.<strong>_

Buchanan walked the long Cross Hall with his nation by his side. He spoke in a low, tired tone that betrayed his normally aloof stance. Alfred's voice, however, was brimming with hurt and determination as they argued. Before the blue-eyed blond could begin another lengthy protest, the ex-president interrupted him.

"If I have told you once, Jones, then I have told you a hundred times: it would be just as illegal to bring them back as to let them leave!"

"We have to do _something_, James!" Alfred insisted, completely forgetting formalities in his passion. The president sent him a half-hearted glare in return. He detested the young nation speaking with him on a first-name basis, but wasn't inclined to point it out to the usually unmannered man.

"No. The law is the law, and I will not go against something as simple as that."

"You're an attorney! Figure something out!" The nation growled back.

"It's too late for those who have left. All I can do now is hope to keep the rest of our Union together." Buchanan insisted.

The blond nation grumbled something under his breath, but resigned from their argument. There was no winning when it came to trying to convince the ex-president of anything not on his agenda. He may not have liked Buchanan, but even Alfred admired his steadfastness.

The president was surprised that the bespectacled man beside him had given up so easily. When he'd first been inaugurated, the young nation had challenged, questioned, and even laughed at him during most of their debates. This defeated silence was unnerving.

"Jones, are you well?"

Alfred was silent, contemplating whether he ought to tell Buchanan about the shadowy moods that had been haunting him for some time now. He shook off the thought. The stiff man wouldn't understand his plight anyway.

The young nation merely nodded. Those first few days of the secessions had been the worst, but now that he had had some time to recover from the events, he felt a bit better. He'd managed to start eating again, and starting to fall back into dreamless sleep. Hopefully it would continue to trend in his favor.

They continued walking down the Cross Hall, yet just as they passed the usher's room, an officer approached them from within. He kept his eyes cast down to the floor.

The blue-eyed nation groaned as the flaring pain in his heart returned. His body began to quiver, aching with the now familiar sense of loss as Buchanan was handed a note. He read it silently.

The man pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration before passing it to Alfred. The nation simply stuffed the note into the breast pocket of his coat. There was no point in reading it: he knew exactly what it was about. It would only pain him even more to read the declaration of secession yet again.

Buchanan adjusted the stiff jowl collar at his throat, keeping his voice even as he glanced back at his nation.

"I am afraid this Union is crumbling before our eyes, Jones. It seems Georgia has joined her rebellious sisters…"

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><p><em><strong>February 8, 1861.<strong>_

Alfred leaned his back against the cool bark of one of the White House's knobby magnolia trees. While it may have been chilly, the sun was bright and streaming through the breaks in the sparsely foliated branches to dapple broad patches of light across Alfred's skin. The filtered sunlight left warm spots across his body to offset the chill.

He had decided to sit out on the South Lawn to try and enjoy the beautiful day. In his foul mood, he normally would have preferred to stay in the East Room**,** but the ushers had adamantly encouraged him to try and relax out here. It was very likely because they were tired of dealing with the moody nation locking himself in the East Room day after day to glare out the window. His dark presence did make it unnerving to try to clean the big space, after all.

Tilting his head back, the blue-eyed nation could see the tiny white spots of the flowers forming between the thick leaves. The frosts were light this year, so the flowers were likely to begin blooming early. Alfred actually smiled at the thought; he couldn't wait for spring to arrive and end this loathsome winter. The White House Lawns were always beautiful in bloom, or at least to Alfred they were. It was nice to think about much simpler things like this, rather than the impending doom of the Union he'd fought so hard to create.

Alfred let his eyes slip shut, just enjoying the subtle, sweet scent of the magnolias, completely pushing his dreadful thoughts from his mind. He became so lost in the simple, aromatic blackness that he didn't hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

"I'm surprised to find you out here, Jones, rather than the East Room."

Alfred didn't bother to open his eyes, content to ignore Buchanan.

"Jones?"

There was a long pause that Alfred intentionally drew out. He didn't want to leave his blissful darkness to answer the ex-president.

Buchanan coughed.

"What is it, sir?" Alfred finally inquired, keeping his voice flat. He reasoned that while it would have been nice, ignoring his leader probably wasn't wise.

"I have news for you."

"Is it bad?"

"Dreadful."

Alfred sighed, letting his eyelids flutter open to look up at Buchanan. There was a collection of papers in his hand that filled Alfred with his familiar despair. He reached up to take the abhorred sheets before bringing them down to his lap to read.

"I'm sure this hurts you as much as it hurts me." The president said.

_You're wrong. It hurts much more than you think. You just have no idea._Alfred thought bitterly as he read through the papers. He set them aside when he was done.

The wind picked up the sheets, scattering them across the South Lawn without care. Alfred felt as if those papers were all his hard work and happiness: everything thrown to the wind and gone.

"South Carolina, Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, Texas: they are all traitors now." Alfred declared with a low growl rumbling in his throat. His brief moment of happiness was utterly crushed, replaced only with a familiar anger and hurt.

They had all left him. Even if Kansas had come to join the Union, the one small gain was not enough to fill the loss of his other states. One tiny piece of the puzzle was not enough to complete him again.

"Now do you understand, James? Something has to be done, or there will no longer be a Union law to follow."

"My time is almost up, Jones."

"Didn't stop Adams…" Alfred grumbled.

"It doesn't matter. What's done is done. We will try to mediate this situation as best we can. Maybe Lincoln will have better luck than I." The president dismissed, turning on his heel to head back into the mansion.

"The Confederate States of America…" It left a bad taste in the young nation's mouth when he spoke the words aloud. Reading the words on the papers had been bad enough, but letting them escape his throat felt even worse. It was like poison to him: dangerous and foul.

He looked out across the South Lawn again with his usually bright blue orbs dim and apathetic. He couldn't find the beauty he'd once hoped for earlier. The world was ugly, he decided; ugly and full of traitors just waiting to pounce upon him.

* * *

><p><strong>History:<strong>

**On Jan. 9****th****, 1861, Mississippi left the Union, the next day, so did Florida. The day after that it was Alabama's turn to leave. Nearly all their secession meetings had unanimous or very closely unanimous votes to leave the Union. The Deep South was really pissed off.**

**January 19****th****, Georgia left the union, and on January 26****th ****Louisiana followed. However, on Jan 29****th****, Kansas joined the Union. Come February 1****st****, Texas left.**

**On February 8****th****, the 7 seceded states met and formed the Confederate States of America. Buchanan refused to do anything about the rebellious states. He had been an attorney before his presidency and took a firm oath to stick to the law and the Constitution. Trying to bring the states back would have been illegal (it meant going to war) if he followed that oath (which he did).**

**Even though he tried to passively coax them back, the South didn't want anything to do with the North. Buchanan pretty much tried to ignore it and hope everything would fix itself after his compromise attempts failed miserably. **

**The magnolias were actually there and were Andrew Jackson's favorite trees and he had quite a few planted on the South Lawn.**

**The bit about Adams: Just before he left office after Jefferson's victory, he did something commonly referred to as the 'midnight appointments', though the real name for it was the Judiciary Act of 1801. Basically in the last few days of his time in office, Adams gave over 60 government positions to his friends and fellow party members. That way, when Jefferson (who had much different views than Adams) took office, Adam's party would still hold some power in the government.**

**This eventually led to the whole****_Marbury v. Madison_****case, which basically gave the Supreme Court its most famous power: Judicial Review. It's actually quite simple. It means the Supreme Court gets to decide if a law is constitutionally legal. If not, stuff gets amended.**


	3. Chapter 3

_****_**Hello once again, readers! I'll just jump straight to reviews:**

**Kay: Haha, gotta love a sassy Al! ;) And thank God... damn your pen name! -_-**

**JulietGivesUp: Why thanks you! And yes, Alfred will be participating in battles as well. Naturally, Gettysburg will be mentioned (what's a Civil War fic without Gettysburg? ;)).**

**Trumpet-Geek: Oh, I love American history with a passion, and quite simply for the very fact that it_ is_ so American! Don't get me wrong, I love Euro history too, but something about how wild, unique and fast-paced American history is just gets to me every time. ^^ **

**RoxiMaximoff: :) Thank you and I'm glad you're enjoying it so far! Hopefully you'll get to see this message soon! :)**

**Mofalle: That's what I like to hear: people learning from my notes. It just means I've done something right with my research! ^^ Glad you're liking it!**

**Thanks again to Kay for beta-ing this and putting up with my East and West mix-ups (I really hope it's right this time). ;) **

_**March 4, 1861. **_

Alfred regarded the approaching carriage carrying the president and president elect with steely blue eyes. They flicked, darting through the crowd that had gathered around the East Portico of the Capitol, searching for any signs of danger to the horse-drawn vehicle. Lincoln had received many death threats already, and Alfred wasn't too keen on letting his next leader be assassinated before he even took office.

Even if it wasn't necessarily part of his duty as a nation, the blond still felt compelled to watch out for the safety of his leaders. He honestly liked Lincoln, and wouldn't wish any harm on the shy Illinois senator. Also, losing a president was hard on the people, and in turn, their emotions made it painful for Alfred. Whether he watched for trouble based on the instinct of self-preservation or out of the kindness of his still young, benign heart, he didn't exactly know, nor did he ponder it further. He had no desire to slip back into his dark reflections yet again.

The young nation sighed softly, watching the throng of people part for the carriage. He leaned against one of the massive columns that adorned the front of the building. The cold, white surface chilled him even through the thick sleeve of his dark coat. It left him feeling deathly cold, despite the oppressive heat thrown off by the mass of important people that cluttered around him to watch the carriage approach.

The eerie chill slowly began to lift as the carriage halted, and Buchanan and Lincoln stepped out.

A massive cheer erupted from the crowd, making Alfred grit his teeth as the deafening noise assaulted his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the raucous sound by focusing on something else. Unfortunately, his mind went straight to the message he had received from Major Anderson in South Carolina.

The report had detailed that the rebels in South Carolina had turned one of their supply ships, _the_ _Star of the West_, back from its trip to Fort Sumter. The ship had been forced to return to New York, affirming the terrible news. Apparently the rebels had chased them away threatening to sink any other Union ship that dared enter Southern waters.

Alfred had burned the report, infuriated by the news. How dare the Confederate States siege his forts! The young nation was already horrified that the federal strongholds were being captured, but to starve the innocent soldiers stationed there without means to re-supply? The Southern rebels had gone too far.

Now, standing upon the freshly washed Portico, and watching Lincoln ascend the steps, the young nation couldn't help but look to his new leader for hope. This had to stop. Buchanan had failed, so now Lincoln _had_ to succeed. Alfred had been waiting for this day for some time now. He had never liked Buchanan's sympathy for the angry South, but Lincoln was different. Lincoln would save him; he just knew it.

The new president would declare the Confederates the enemies and give the affirmative to put a stop to the rebellion. He had to! Alfred was absolutely certain he would, especially with the restless aura that nipped at the back of his mind. It stemmed from his people's building aggression, but it tumbled into solid, burning desire for action in the young nation.

The blue-eyed blond refused to be bullied by his own states, what were once his own people, any longer. If a war was what they wanted, Alfred would give it to them. But what if his weakened, and torn half of the nation wasn't enough? The South had seized so many key fortifications, and the army wasn't up to par as it was. What if the South was stronger than he thought? There were so many things left enshrouded with uncertainty.

The blond nation shuddered at the thought of failure. He had yet to lose a war, or his lands, but he wondered in morbid curiosity just what it would be like to be defeated. Fighting wars hurt, but was defeat worse? What had it been like for England when Alfred had turned his back on the imperial nation? Did it hurt? Would it leave him as bitter as it had left his former caretaker? Would he even exist afterwards if the Confederates managed to overcome the Union? What was death like?

_No. I don't want to fade away and die._Alfred thought darkly. _I refuse._

Lincoln's voice suddenly shook him from his doleful thoughts before he could delve too deeply into them. He had ascended the staircase, and was now standing under a makeshift awning on the edge of the Portico.

_"__Apprehension seems to exist among the people of the Southern States that by the accession of a Republican Administration their property and their peace and personal security are to be endangered. There has never been any reasonable cause for such apprehension. Indeed, the most ample evidence to the contrary has all the while existed and been open to their inspection."_

Alfred stood a bit straighter as Lincoln had already begun his speech. A thin, weary smile appeared on his lips. He had not yet seen or heard Lincoln's planned speech before today, and the young nation was very much interested in what his new leader had to say. So far, he approved. Maybe Lincoln was being a bit too passive, but that was understandable for his inaugural speech. Sometimes it was better to appeal to the moderates, rather than radicals.

_"__I have no purpose, directly or indirectly, to interfere with the institution of slavery in the States where it exists. I believe I have no lawful right to do so, and I have no inclination to do so."_

Alfred's darkened blues narrowed. No intention of getting rid of the South's Peculiar Institution? How could that be! Was Lincoln just another Buchanan, bound by ancient law?

_"__Resolved, that the maintenance inviolate of the rights of the States, and especially the right of each State to order and control its own domestic institutions according to its own judgment exclusively, is essential to that balance of power on which the perfection and endurance of our political fabric depend; and we denounce the lawless invasion by armed force of the soil of any State or Territory, no matter what pretext, as among the gravest of crimes."_

The young nation growled, enticing peculiar stares from the people that surrounded him. He sent their judgmental gazes away with a dark leer of his own.

Lincoln was sounding too much like Buchanan already. It made Alfred's blood boil in his veins with anger and betrayal. He had believed that Lincoln's stance would be different from his predecessor, but now the blond saw that he could have been very wrong to place his trust and his hope in the new president.

_Don't just talk about what you believe. Do something about it! You made this issue into morals, brought its wrath on my head, and then you turn on me? You say you will not intervene, but you say it is unethical what they do? Don't condole with the rebels: fight them! They're trying to tear me apart while you waste your breath!_

Alfred drew his collar up higher, hunching into his coat as a sharp, cold wind whipped across the Portico, as if reacting to his volatile thoughts.

Lincoln shivered, glancing brieflyand subtly over his shoulder to where Alfred was standing. The young nation shot him a warning glare. He was in no mood to be toyed with**. **Lincoln had better understand that. And fast.

The president carried on with his speech, swallowing hard.

_"It is seventy-two years since the first inauguration of a President under our National Constitution. During that period fifteen different and greatly distinguished citizens have in succession administered the executive branch of the Government. They have conducted it through many perils, and generally with great success. Yet, with all this scope of precedent, I now enter upon the same task for the brief constitutional term of four years under great and peculiar difficulty. A disruption of the Federal Union, heretofore only menaced, is now formidably attempted."_

Alfred forced his brooding anger down as best he could as the nostalgia overtook him. It was hard, but Alfred preferred his older memories to his current mood. But had it really only been seventy-two years? The nation sighed. It felt as if it had been infinitely longer than that.

He could distinctly recall the times before his independence. He could remember England and France bickering over him, the bitter fights with his former caretaker, the pain of not one, but two wars with England. Of course there were much better times. He'd enjoyed his prosperity, how well he got to eat now, the smiling faces of his soldiers returning from victorious battles, the happy laughter of children playing in the numerous, tall cornfields. He could remember it all. Just seventy-two years? No. It was much more than that, Alfred decided.

_"This country, with its institutions, belongs to the people who inhabit it. Whenever they shall grow weary of the existing Government, they can exercise their constitutional right of amending it or their revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it. I can not be ignorant of the fact that many worthy and patriotic citizens are desirous of having the National Constitution amended. While I make no recommendation of amendments, I fully recognize the rightful authority of the people over the whole subject, to be exercised in either of the modes prescribed in the instrument itself; and I should, under existing circumstances, favor rather than oppose a fair opportunity being afforded the people to act upon it."_

Snarling, Alfred turned to leave. The happy memories had vanished from the forefront of his mind, replaced by his residing anger once again. He couldn't listen to this anymore! How dare they completely forget his pain! They, his people and his leader, had no idea what it was like to be torn asunder: to be divided by bitter hate and violence while they gave him empty words and promises.

"There cannot be compromise**;** either I live or I fade. Pick your poison, Lincoln, but do it quickly. If the people have a right to tear me down, then so be it, but I won't go without a fight. There will be a war, whether you want it or not, Mr. President." Alfred hissed under his breath as he moved through the tangled throng of cheering people. No one seemed to notice him as he descended the far staircase to level ground; a tall terrace with heavy foliage conveniently hid it. He didn't want anyone to see him.

The irate nation stormed to where he'd left his horse tied to an old birch tree. The sable brown steed snorted when his master approached, obviously sensing Alfred's sour mood. He snatched the uneasy animal's bridle, forcing the beast to stay still with his raw strength.

Normally, the young nation was sensitive to his horse's discomfort, since he had a fondness for the big animals, but now found that he couldn't bring himself to care past his dismal thoughts. Untying the halter knot, he swung up into the saddle, and kicked his mount into a hard gallop.

He rode past the East Portico, bound for the White House, when he overheard Lincoln's closing words.

_"In your hands, my dissatisfied fellow-countrymen, and not in mine, is the momentous issue of civil war. The Government will not assail you. You can have no conflict without being yourselves the aggressors. You have no oath registered in heaven to destroy the Government, while I shall have the most solemn one to__'preserve, protect, and defend it.'_

_"I am loath to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."_

The blond nation scoffed bitterly, and rode on without looking back at his new leader when the cheer of the people went up.

_They may believe those lies, Lincoln, but I will not. I have enemies, and they are on our doorstep…_

His heart ached with a terrible pang of regret. He should never have trusted Lincoln to be his savior.

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 13, 1861.<strong>_

The first rays of the sun had yet to grace the bombarded South Carolinian fort Alfred had been sent to relieve. Very faint trickles of dark gold and scarlet had begun to permeate the eastern sky, but it wasn't enough to see by**.** Only a vague outline of the fort was visible.

Alfred stood upon the gleaming deck of _the__ Star of The West_ with a forlorn look on his visage.

It didn't matter that he couldn't see what was going on. Alfred only needed to hear the next sound to come to feel the despair creeping into his heart. His last hope that Sumter would stand was dashed when the trumpeting notes of the bugle pierced the air.

He scuffed his bootson the deck planks, and bowed his head as the honorary salute of surrender rang into the early morning air. Fort Sumter was officially lost.

"Mr. America, sir." A young crewman addressed him, suddenly rousing the young nation from his abysmal mood.

"Yes?" Alfred responded without looking up.

"Sir, the Confederates are allowing the fort to be evacuated now."

"Very well. Sail to." The young nation ordered. The man affirmed with a: "Yes, sir!" before dashing off to inform the ship's captain of Alfred's orders.

As the steamship drew closer and closer to the smoking fort, Alfred just began to see the heavy damage inflicted on the fortifications. Gaping patches of stone were missing from its walls, while the barbette tier was almost completely destroyed. He grimaced when he noticed the Confederate flag flapping in the breeze over Fort Sumter.

The young nation dismally oversaw the boarding of his defeated troops. Many of them had streaks of grime and gunpowder over their faces and uniforms. They all bore the same defeated look on their visages, mirroring Alfred's inner despair.

Major Anderson, the fort's commander, was one of the last to board. He had Sumter's folded Union flag clutched to his chest as he stepped on to the ship. He walked up to Alfred with a sad look in his dark eyes.

"I'm so sorry, sir." He said lowly, and Alfred could see a faint shimmer in the man's eyes.

"You are a brave man, Major Anderson. You were right to surrender when you did. I'm sure your men are grateful for your wise command."

"Thank you, Mr. America." The man tipped his service cap. "But, it still wasn't enough."

"Perhaps it never will be, Major Anderson, but we will make sure you and your men are honored for your brave attempt."

"Thank you again, sir." Anderson nodded, stepping back to salute his nation before going among his troops to console them.

The blue-eyed nation watched him disappear before turning to face Fort Sumter again. He watched it grow smaller and smaller as the steamship sailed away while the sun's light glinted on the fort's walls. It gave the place an almost ethereal characteristic, making Alfred shudder. It was just another ghost of his slowly dying country.

"We'll be back to save you, and when we do, I'll be sure to tear down that Confederate flag with my own two hands." Alfred decreed, finally tearing his gaze from the fort to stare down into the rippling water below him.

"_Never…"_

The young nation flinched. He frantically looked around, but there wasn't a single soul near enough to be heard on the deck. His troubled blues darted back to the fort. The flag set on its crest waved wildly, despite only the most minimal amount of wind.

Alfred shook off the strange occurrence. He rubbed at his tired eyes with the heels of his palms. The lack of sleep was surely getting to him. That was the only reasonable explanation… right?

Stepping away from the deck, Alfred turned to retire to his cabin: determined to find some comfort in sleep if he could.

* * *

><p><strong>History:<strong>

**On March 4****th****, 1861, Lincoln was inaugurated as President. His speech detailed the Constitution's lack of voice on the issue of slavery (It had been purposefully left out, just avoid this very war when the nation was first being founded after independence). He claimed he had no power over the states regarding that matter, since it wasn't in the Constitution (basis of States rights and the 10****th****Amendment of the Constitution.) This did not please any Northerner in the slightest.**

**Lincoln, during the famous Lincoln-Douglas debates in Illinois, was the first politician to make slavery a moral issue. It had always been debated as an economic/political one, because slaves had always been seen as property, and morals were a much lesser part of politics. The first true nitty-gritty mudslinging American presidential campaigns had only started with Jackson (1830s). The idea of ****_ad hominem_**** wasn't as popular or encouraged yet. When Lincoln made slavery a moral issue, he backed Douglas into a corner, and won much of his popular support from abolitionists. **

**He pleaded with the Southern states to reconsider their violent actions by coming to peace with the Union. He wanted the entire country to think long and hard about what was about to occur if the South didn't calm. The war wasn't a surprise by any means when it finally did happen. Everyone knew it was coming. So many tried and failed peace attempts had been initiated that it was well known that treaties weren't going to solve the issue. Of course, it takes a lot of time if true peace is to be achieved, but the people were impatient; they wanted the crisis solved now.**

**The South began to seize federal forts and occupy them when Buchanan refused to surrender them. He didn't send troops to recapture the forts before his term ended, though.**

**A supply ship was sent to Fort Sumter, South Carolina, in order to relieve the siege-held Union troops. The Confederacy turned the ship away, shooting at it and threatening to fire upon any other Union ship that entered their borders.**

**Major Anderson, the commander of Sumter, in a brave display, refused to surrender the fort to the Confederates at first. Finally, after running out of ammunition and with the****_Star of the West_****just outside the fort, he decided it would be best to surrender and spare his men.**

**He carried the Union's flag from the fort with him all the way back to New York. It's currently displayed in fort's museum to this day. A grand parade was held for the Fort Sumter soldiers in honor of their bravery for holding the fort for so long.**

**Only one union soldier died, and that was because he was shot during the surrender salute. One confederate died after a misfired cannon had him bleed to death.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Back again on another lovely Wednesday afternoon to bring you lovely readers chapter 4 of Shatter! Yay!**

**Super big thanks to one of my amazing betas, the wonderful Kay the Beta! Whose name is now a thousand and one times easier for me to type out! xD**

**Reviews: **

**Kay: Hooray! :) Figured I'd get it right after two or three tries. :P**

**Trumpet-Geek: Extremely ironic. XD Oh, yes, 'the voice' ;) Well, you won't have to wait too long!**

**NewMoon29: It really is! I get so excited when I recognize dates or events in fanfiction. **

**George: Glad to see you found some time out of your crazy schedule to come wander over into my corner! Well, hopefully I can teach you a thing or two about the war, or at least give you some interesting little facts! Yeah, it's hard keeping an update schedule, but it's nice to have a bit of consistency. It's very different from my wild updates with American Trains and Risico. Trying something new! :)**

**Kitty-Kat Allie: Mmm, It's good to see folks using such a great resource like Kay the Beta's youtube channel (And for those of you who haven't subscribed, go do so. She gives her subscribers the music and updates for the amazing George deValier's Vera-verse stories! How awesome is that! :D You can find it on her page). Yes, Lincoln is certainly an admirable man! He's up there with my favorite presidents as well (Teddy Roosevelt takes 1****st**** place though. Gotta love 'im!) N'awww, I know, poor Alfie!**

**Now then, on to show!**

* * *

><p><em><strong>April 17, 1861<strong>_

Alfred smirked slyly at his reflection in the old mirror that was hung high on the guest bedroom's wall. He combed his fingers through the unruly mess of his fallow-gold hair with a light chuckle. He had a distinct reason to be much more upbeat than his previously downcast mood. Finally, things were starting to actually go his way in the matters of the impending war.

Lincoln's decree of insurrection for the Confederate States, along with the call for army volunteers was going quite well. It was clear that his people were eager to see the war ended quickly. The Northern militias were already starting to train the massive wave of eager new soldiers, and Alfred was confident that the North's superior numbers would quickly overcome the South.

Alfred's grin widened. The Confederacy wasn't having as much luck with that same proposition of mustering up enough troops to match the Union army.

_"You're a fool…"_

The young nation flinched. He slammed his hands down on the dresser top as his skin suddenly tingled with a cold sweat. His eyes darted about the room wildly, but noted nothing out of place. These unnerving occurrences were becoming more and more frequent. The darkly drawled voice haunted him every chance it got, making Alfred jittery and nervous.

A sudden rapping on the door made him jump, and he knocked over a dainty vase. It struck the floor and shattered, leaving a dusty pile of cracked fragments scattered at Alfred's feet. He swore, stepping back from the mess.

"Mr. America, are you all right?" A meek voice asked from behind the closed door.

"Yes!" He answered quickly while nudging the fragments under the dresser with his foot.

"May I enter?"

He pushed the last of the broken vase under the dresser as fast as he could. He would have to clean that up later, as he wasn't particularly in the mood to be scolded by the servants for breaking expensive vases.

"Yes. Enter." He finally responded.

A stout, round servant entered with a concerned look on her rosy face.

"My dear, I heard a crash. Are you sure you are well?"

"Yes." He affirmed. "I'm fine." He inhaled sharply, and had a false smile on his lips. He hoped his lie would be enough to reassure her.

The servant woman nodded before fishing out a note from her apron pouch.

"This just came in, addressed to you."

Alfred took the paper and thanked her. The moment the servant left and shut the door behind her, the young nation sunk to the floor with an overwhelming sensation of dread flooding his weary heart. His stomach knotted painfully as his back scraped down the textured surface of the dresser. Alfred couldn't bring himself to care about that slight pain as he unfolded the unwelcome parchment.

The blond nation read each line carefully before pushing the note under the dresser along with broken shards of the vase. He never wanted to see either ever again.

Alfred brought his knees to his chest with a defeated sigh. He shuddered violently. An eerie chill shot down his spine as the malicious voice from earlier returned.

_"Mine…"_

Virginia had left the Union, along with one their finest generals: Robert E. Lee…

* * *

><p><strong><em>May 13, 1861<em>**

"Can I trust that you will deliver Mr. Palmerston and Her Majesty's verdict without losing hold of your emotions, Mr. Kirkland?" Asked the diplomat as he walked beside his irritable nation.

Arthur scoffed, his emerald eyes narrowing in displeasure. The man had some nerve, acting as if Arthur was an overly emotional child!

"I assure you, Lyons, that _my_ emotions will not be the problem."

Lord Lyons smirked.

"That I can believe. As for Mr. America, I have my doubts. He seems to be a wild one."

"He always was." Arthur murmured nostalgically as they approached the grand doors to the meeting room.

The old nation sighed sadly as they entered the wide, grand room. He hadn't seen his former colony face to face in nearly fifty years. The Warof 1812 had divided them so deeply that Arthur wasn't sure he would have wanted to see America in the aftermath. He had tried to reason with the young nation after France had finally been put under control, but he had been met with snobbish resistance. He'd even tried to be friendly: going so far as to enforce Alfred's Monroe Doctrine despite early hardships. Alfred had seemed indifferent to that as well.

But then came the Oregon dispute and their scrap over the Mosquito Coast, which only drove the wedge between them even further. Arthur had refused to see Alfred during those later negotiations, and the younger nation hadn't objected at all.

Certainly, their trade relations had begun again, but that was more from necessity than from friendliness. Diplomats were stationed on either side peacefully, but neither had visited the other's home since they'd walked away from each other at Ghent.

Arthur felt a pang of regret flood his heart as he remembered that day. The Brit had turned his back on Alfred with a disgusted sneer on his face; he had been so enraged by the fact that the upstart nation had humiliated him once again. Of course the old nation had been furious, but he hadn't earnestly meant to drive Alfred away for close to fifty years. He missed the boisterous, cheerful lad he'd known for so long.

Finally, he would be seeing his former charge again, once more on account of impending war.

_At least this time I won't have to be shooting at him. I hope._

The emerald-eyed nation took his seat at the table beside Lord Lyons as they waited for Alfred and the American diplomat, Charles Adams. Francis would be arriving as well with one of his emissaries, Edouard Thouvenel.

Arthur became lost in his memories again until a pair of servants opened the doors to the meeting room; his eyes darted up to see Alfred and Adams entering. Arthur and Lord Lyons rose from their seats to greet their American guests with customary politeness.

When Arthur shook the blue-eyed nation's hand he noted, with a deep concern, that Alfred's grip was slack and devoid of his usual strength. He met the younger's eyes for a brief moment. The usually clear, bright blues were dark and a bit out of focus. The older nation also noticed the weary expression, pallid skin and dark circles under his former charge's eyes. He looked dreadful.

Arthur withdrew his hand without mentioning any of these things, as it would have been unacceptably rude, and took his seat beside Lyons. The diplomat had only to shoot Arthur a quick glance, and the nation easily replaced any concern he might have shown for a cold, apathetic mask. It came as easily as breathing for Arthur. He'd been dealing with these sorts of things for hundreds of years, and it showed.

While Arthur may have been able to put up an icy shield, Alfred found he was too dazed and tired to care. It was surreal, seeing the emerald-eyed nation again. He looked every bit as the blue-eyed nation recalled him: intense green eyes, messy gold hair, a proud aura fit for a king and the perfect poise of a gentleman. It struck a chord of pain in Alfred's heart to see Arthur glaring at him apathetically. He much preferred when his former caretaker smiled, as he had before the Revolution. Arthur had a rare smile that could have chased away all the darkness looming over Alfred.

The young nation couldn't recall the last time Arthur had smiled at him; he wished for a genuine smile, not the cruel, cocky smirk at the end of a victorious battle that Alfred had become accustomed to. He wanted the darkness to go away. He wanted Arthur to make it all better like he used to. No matter how childish it made him feel, Alfred would have been perfectly happy to curl up in his former caretaker's arms again.

Vaguely, the younger nation knew that Adams and Lyons were discussing the disastrous divide in his lands, but he couldn't seem to focus on their words. It sounded like a raucous jumble of muffled syllables that he couldn't decipher no matter how hard he tried. Eventually, he gave up and focused all his attentions on the older nation sitting across from him.

It was hard to look directly at that face. He loathed the way Arthur's once warm emeralds were now a vicious, cold viridianthat pierced his soul accusingly. It felt as if Arthur was deliberately trying to guilt him. Of what, Alfred wasn't sure; it could have been a dozen or more things: the Revolution, the War of 1812, Oregon, the Monroe Doctrine, the Aroostook War, anything.

"Ah, I see you have begun without _moi_!" A familiar, sly voice chimed as the servants opened the heavy doors once again.

All four men turned to watch Francis saunter into the room with his usual arrogance. He tossed his richly embroidered blue coat over the back of his designated seat beside Arthur, and sat in his assigned place. His diplomat did the same.

The Frenchman outstretched his hand to shake with Alfred and flashed him his usual devilish smirk, but a look of concern crossed his deep sapphire eyes.

"_Mon Dieu, __Amérique_!" He exclaimed, noting the young nation's haggard appearance. "You look terrible!"

Alfred felt his lip twitch. Arthur scowled. Leave it Francis to be unmistakably blunt and rude where Arthur had tried to be discreet.

"Thanks, France…"

Said man gave him another concerned look, but said no more as the diplomats resumed discussing. He put on as cold a mask as Arthur's then, and simply watched the two. Even if he was concerned for Alfred, this was still official business.

The young nation once again became keenly aware of Arthur's eyes on him, and Francis' as well. It became so unnerving in his volatile state, that Alfred couldn't help but try to arrest it.

"Stop it…" Alfred hissed under his breath.

None of the diplomats seemed to notice, locked in their own debate, but Arthur and Francis heard. The English nation cocked an ample brow while retaining his aloof façade.

"Pardon?" He returned in a whisper.

"Stop staring at me." Alfred ordered, his voice hoarse with unbridled emotion. While it was mainly directed at Arthur, he did wish Francis would at least have the decency to look away. Naturally he started on in curiosity.

The Brit seemed to take it as a vindictive challenge.

"Make me, America."

"_Angleterre…" _Francis warned, but Arthur paid him no heed.

Alfred growled low, eyes narrowing in anger. Why did Arthur have to act so cruel? Couldn't he see just how badly Alfred was hurting over this? Couldn't he hear the raw emotion in the younger's voice?

"Please stop." The younger pleaded.

"No. I'll do as I please." Arthur returned, straightening his shoulders, and crossing his arms before his chest. Damn Alfred and that desperate voice of his. It nearly ripped that apathetic mask he'd been holding right from the older, but he refused to be bested in front of not just three prominent diplomats, but Francis as well.

"_Mes amis, s'il vous plait…."_ Francis began pleadingly. He was proverbially far enough from the situation to be able to see the burgeoning disaster about to unfold if this continued.

_No, Francis. I still have my pride to maintain._ Arthur thought firmly, if only to reassure himself of the cruel blow he was inflicting upon the distraught nation.

Alfred sighed dejectedly, posture slouching even further. The young nation was just too tired to fight with Arthur. He averted his eyes, willing that if he ignored him, Arthur and his angry emerald eyes would go away. Of course itdidn't work, and unfortunately Lord Lyons noticed the young nation's disrespectful pose.

"Are we boring you, Mr. America?"

Alfred nearly jumped from his seat, taken aback by the sudden comment and brazenness of the accusation. Adams shifted uncomfortably beside his weary nation while the others all watched, waiting to gauge the accused country's reaction.

A bead of sweat trickled down the American diplomat's neck as he silently prayed Alfred wouldn'tdo anything drastic. The young nation had become exceedingly prominent to violent outbursts as of late.

Thankfully, he didn't.

Alfred simply clamped his jaw shut, grinding his teeth together to avoid retorting. He didn't trust his emotional state to give him a passive voice or an acceptable response. He then shook his head, and motioned for them to continue.

Lyons did so with a pompous scoff.

"The United Kingdom has come to the conclusion of its identity regarding the American troubles between your Northern and Southern regions. We will declare a state of neutrality. However, we have yet to decide upon the recognition of the Confederate States of America. You will have our answer when we are ready to give you one."

"The French Republic has also decided upon this same course of action. We will meet again later to discus recognition if the rebellion is not put down in a timely manner." Thouvenel chimed in.

"_What!"_ Alfred bellowed suddenly. He jumped to his feet so quickly that his seat toppled backwards to the floor. "You can't! You can't recognize a rebellion as a nation! What the hell is wrong with you people?"

"And just what do you think you were?" Arthur spit back a bit more sharply than he had intended. "We so graciously allowed _you_ recognition."

Alfred stood silently stunned, locking eyes with his former caretaker. Francis groaned, seeing the pain glistening so plainly in Alfred's eyes.

"B-but…" He tried, but found his voice choked off.

Arthur rose slowly, breaking the contact, and dusted off the imaginary specks on his coat.

"You have our answer, ergo, this meeting is adjourned." He declared with an icy tongue that made Alfred's heart murmur in terrible pain. How could Arthur be like this to him? This was completely different from the Revolution, wasn't it? The Confederacy wasn't a nation! There was no living, breathing soul, like Alfred, there to watch over it. Alfred was a real being, who hurt, loved, bled and laughed just like Arthur, or Francis or any other nation. Were they just going to sit back and watch him get torn to shreds? Maybe even reward the people who did with sovereignty?

From somewhere, Alfred could hear the distinct rumble of vile laughter. He wished it was Arthur or Francis, but knew that it couldn't be. Neither nation showed any hint of emotion past their neutral expressions. The young nation shuddered, biting his lip harshly.

Alfred still stood in shock as France rose as well with a sympathetic farewell. Alfred didn't respond, merely watching as Arthur, Francis and their diplomats left Adams and his nation alone in the giant room.

The mortal man patted his nation's shoulder.

"Come along, Mr. America. I believe we are done here."

As Alfred turned to follow his diplomat numbly, Francis chose the opportune moment to cut Arthur off as they walked down the hallway adjoining the meeting room.

"To hell with you, Francis! Out of my way!" Arthur growled lowly. He wasn't in any mood to deal with his old rival.

"_Non_, Arthur. We need to talk about this."

"There is nothing to discuss, Frog! Now move, or I will make you!"

Francis either didn't care or wasn't intimidated by the shorter nation he had known for so long, as he didn't budge.

"Something is wrong with little Alfred. Did you not see?"

"I saw, but that doesn't mean I care." Arthur growled back. That was a lie. It broke Arthur's old heart to walk away from Alfred's pained expression.

"You lie, Arthur. I know very well that you still care for him."

"I couldn't care less if his whole bloody country went up in flames and I never spoke with him again!" Arthur declared.

Francis sighed, and a sad smile formed on his lips.

"_Angleterre_, that is a terrible thing to say about the man you love."

"Shut up, Frog! I don't love him! Now move!" The Englishman roared, pushing his old rival with as much dejected strength as he could muster. Francis could have resisted, but chose to let Arthur through without much effort.

Arthur felt the Frenchman's eyes bore into his back as he stormed away, but refused to acknowledge him.

_Damn you, Francis. I hate that you know. I loathe the very fact that you can see that I can't let go of my feelings for that stupid American. Let the prat destroy himself, so that maybe then my heart will stop hurting and I can get on with my life! _

Arthur had to stop himself. How could he have possibly thought that about Alfred? Childish, affectionate, wild, slightly frustrating Alfred…but still the very same man he'd fallen in love with so long ago…

_No. No, I don't wish that on him._Arthur thought sadly_._

Of course, Arthur knew the pain of civil wars and revolutions. It was something nearly all the older nations had experienced and understood. It was just another dark part of their lives. And unfortunately for Alfred, it had come at one of the worst possible times.

Arthur's emotions flooded with sympathy for the young nation. For Arthur, the War of the Roses had been devastating, but it had occurred much later in his life. His age and experience had helped him manage through the terrible time. Alfred didn't have that luxury. He was young and war-weary as it was. The poor lad was probably so terrified right now.

_I'm sorry, dear Alfred, but you have to deal with this on your own. I can only pray that you will survive such a divide. I will watch over you, but understand that I cannot intervene. This is something you must learn from experience… _

Arthur continued walking, following after Lyons with his eyes downcast. As he left the tall building, and headed for home, Alfred was boarding his return vessel to begin the journey back to his bitter lands.

As Alfred stepped onto the deck, he drew in a shuddering breath, and walked to the very edge of the railing. Looking down at the swirling waters, he felt a single, stray tear dribble down his cheek, crest at his chin, and then plummet into the brackish water below.

_"You're alone…"_

**History:**

**On April 17****th****, in 1861, Virginia decided to secede from the Union after Lincoln declared a state of insurrection against the Union by the Confederacy. An insurrection is just a stronger word for a violent rebellion or revolt.**

**It was a low blow to the Union, and severely dampened morale. It was also a turning point in military prowess. The Confederates now had Robert E. Lee on their side, as he could not abandon his home state, despite not wanting to fight his fellow countrymen.**

**This was the starting point of making the Civil War extremely painful and personal for the country. Now, not only were countrymen fighting each other, but also the generals who led them were personally attached to each other. Nearly all the major generals of the war had been young officers in the Mexican-American War and attended military school together. They regarded each other as brothers and the best of friends. Now they were being asked by their leaders to stand out on the battlefield and kill one another.**

**May 13****th****saw the official declaration of neutrality from England regarding the American Civil War. France followed very shortly afterwards.**

**Palmerston was the Prime Minister of Britain at the time of this occurrence.**

**Lord Lyons was once quoted of saying that "Americans are only either wild or dull." Whether this is true is speculation and mostly unknown, but he did seem to be quite a cynic based on his writings. **

**The War of 1812 was an extremely bitter war. On the American side, they felt as if Europe was still treating them like disobedient children. It was America's chance to prove to Europe (mainly Britain and France) that they were no longer going to put up with being bullied (the war started mainly on account of Britain and France seizing American ships at sea and forcing the crews to work in the French or British Navies. This is called Impressment).**

**Afterwards, when England decided it wasn't worth the cost of fighting both America and France at the same time (the Napoleonic wars were occurring then) they eventually gave up the war. The peace treaty was signed in Ghent, Belgium. It was called the second war of independence and shot American morale through the roof (we'd just beaten the most powerful empire in the world, not once, but twice…sorta…).**

**Later on, America and Britain squabbled a few times regarding the Canadian border(owned by Britain at the time). The Oregon dispute became the propaganda campaign of the 11****th****president, James Polk as well and won him the presidency. Basically, America wanted all the Oregon territory and so did Britain. Eventually, they decided to split it in half at the 49****th****parallel (the modern day border).**

**Then came the Aroostook War, which wasn't a war at all. It was a nonviolent dispute that****_almost_****turned into a war. Maine was sick and tired of Canadian lumberjacks cutting down US forests and called up their militia to camp the border. They are the only state to declare a war against another country. It was settled pretty quickly, with Maine gaining most of the disputed forestland anyway. Yay for Maine!**

**The Monroe Doctrine was an interesting piece. It's main premise states that America will not stand for European intervention in the Western Hemisphere, and vise versa, the US will stay out of European affairs.**

**At the time, the US was a very small dog with a very large bark. The army was in shambles and the navy might as well have not existed it was so sparse. The UK stepped in and declared they would back the Monroe Doctrine, mainly on account of their Pax Britannica policy (Basically, the sea belongs to England or it's neutral…no ifs, ands or buts. No fighting allowed) being mainly the same thing, only land based.**

**Earlier, the UK had approached America with a similar resolution, that they would jointly enforce no European powers in North America. The US snubbed them and drafted their own document: the Monroe Doctrine. It was pretty bitchy (which was the point on the American side), and caused a lot of uproar in the UK at the time.**

**The reference to France being out of hand: The Napoleonic wars had been pretty rough on Europe in general. Especially on Britain, the Germanic states (mostly Austria and Prussia) and Russia.**

**The War of the Roses was England's major civil war(s), which occurred in 1455 and lasted some 30 odd years. It was between the two houses of York and Lancaster, and they both wanted the English throne. It's called the War of the Roses because each family's insignia was a red and white rose respectively. This is where England gets its national flower...It's America's, too. Cute, huh?**


	5. Chapter 5

**Howdy readers! I bring good news: there's action in this chapter! ^^**

**As always, big thanks to my beta, Kay. :)**

**Reviews:**

**New Moon29: Pm'd**

**SirenShadow: 'Wowza' haha, that's cute! But wow, I'm really flattered that you've enjoyed my mixing of history and fanfiction. :) I simply adore the fact that I can at least make history a little more fun and informative for people. f**

**AntaiLotus: Pm'df**

**Kitty-Kat Allie: I know right? I was so upset with FF being buggy and not uploading my stuff! :( Don't worry, Lincoln and Al have plenty of interactions. It's likely guess #2, since it isn't Arthur. Although, your idea would be an interesting concept. :P**

**Mokuren no Ken: if only all the history books were this much fun to study from! XD Oh, Texas! How bout them Cowboys? *Shot* (if anyone gets that, you win at life).**

**Kawaii Rin-Chan: Yeah, plenty of angst, and I can't say it's going to get any better for poor Alfie! :(**

**Dawnfire216: Haha! Reading fanfiction 'cause it's FUNdamental! xD**

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><p><strong><em>July 16, 1861<em>**

"I don't like this, not one bit, Mr. America!" General McDowell objected as he rode beside Alfred. The blue-eyed nation sighed wearily.

The young nation tipped the brim of his service cap, and swallowed hard. He wanted to tell McDowell that no one liked this plan, most of all, Alfred, but knew there was no point in augmenting the terrible mood of his general and the marching army. McDowell's inexperience was already proving to be a burden; Alfred didn't need him to be ill tempered as well. McDowell would have to be confident in leading the massive Union army, or Alfred knew they would suffer when it came time to engage the Confederates.

"Neither do I, McDowell, but we've got to do something about the rebels sitting across the Potomac just waiting to charge D.C. If we play our hand right, we can drive the Confederates back to Richmond. You've got them outnumbered, and their generals are as green as you." Attempting to bolster the young general's confidence didn't appear to do much, as McDowell's frown only deepened, leaving thin wrinkles in his forehead.

"I understand that, sir, but we're without a good foothold in these hills and without cover. I say we ought to turn back to Washington and wait for Patterson's men to flank the Potomac Army." He argued. It was a valid point. Alfred couldn't argue with that, but he had to reassert his authority before the green general put too much thought into his idea.

"You don't have to remind me, General, I'm painfully aware of the situation. We will march the columns, follow orders and hope for the best." Alfred said, his voice lowering in warning. He would not stand for any more disobedience or desertion from anyone at this point. The young nation felt a sick, queasy feeling invade his stomach at the very thought.

"Yes, sir." McDowell murmured dejectedly, dropping back to ride beside the rest of the officers. Tired, blue eyes watched him disappear into the throng of mounted officers before flicking back to the path ahead.

Alfred sighed heavily into the warm, early morning air. It was still dark out, but the moon was beginning to dip in the sky. He guessed that it was probably close to three in the morning, and then yawned with that realization. They'd left Washington just after the sun had vanished from sight, leaving the stars to light their way. Even if it was incredibly beautiful with the twinkling gems and the bright moon aloft, and the thick Virginia forests flanking them on either side, Alfred would have preferred to be recovering from his emotional strife back in his bed. But instead of trying to sleep, he was stuck helping to lead the young General McDowell's troops to try dispersing the Confederate army that was camped only twenty-five miles from the capital.

It was unnerving to think about that fact. After Virginia had left him, the Confederacy had relocated their capital to Richmond, placing it dangerously close to Washington DC, which caused a wave of Panic through the lower Union. Now the Virginia army had marched out and seemed to be preparing for a swift victory. It was apparent to Alfred that the South wanted the war over quickly, as they boldly encroached on the Union capital's perimeter.

Alfred frowned darkly at the dreary hypothesis, and then glanced back at the marching army behind him. A field of blue uniforms and polished guns spanned out between the sparse trees and hills. The glint of metal flickered in the darkness from the small light of the oil lamp like the stars above them. The young faces of the soldiers were dark and somber, illuminated by the pale, eerie light. The young nation tried not to look to closely at them, and quickly diverted his gaze back to the space between his horse's ears.

He knew he would be leading many of them to their deaths, but if it meant preserving the Union, then he would gladly bear the guilt. He would be asked to kill many of his people in a much more direct manner anyway.

_I've put down rebellions, fought other nations and even beat the man who tried to raise me, but this…_ He hunched his shoulders, eyes cast downward, staring at the dark, coarse mane of his mount. _This is different. I never thought I'd be fighting my own citizens. _

The blue-eyed nation forced himself to shake off his dismal thoughts. It did no good to think about it now. They were less than a two-day march to Centerville, where they would rest and reorganize the troops. From there, they would be forced to attack the Confederate army, whether Alfred liked it or not…

* * *

><p><strong><em>July 19, 1861<em>**

Alfred galloped his charger along the left flank of the marching column. Scanning the long line of blue-clad soldiers, he searched for his young brigadier general. He only slowed his horse when he caught sight of McDowell conversing with some of the Union officers near the front. He drew up beside them and tipped his hat in greeting. The others returned the gesture with tired mumbles. The blue-eyed nation couldn't blame them for their rough greeting, after all, they had been riding for hours, and it was well into the darkest period of the night. Alfred could feel the stiffness settling in his back and legs from the long hours spent in the saddle. He sympathized with their half-hearted greetings, as he probably couldn't have managed a respectful one if he tried.

"Ah, Mr. America, just the man I needed to speak with," said McDowell, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes. "I've decided it would be a worthless endeavor to try and take the rebel's right flank. Ewell's regiment is entrenched to deeply at Union Mills to dig out. And after Tyler's latest skirmish, I don't think we can safely take Blackburn's Ford. We'll march left, and outflank them. If we're quick, we can take them from the rear and make this a swift victory!" The general decreed triumphantly, despite his haggard appearance.

"Good to see you back in your usual good spirits, McDowell!" Alfred grinned, feeling his heart warm upon hearing McDowell's confidence. Maybe there was so hope for this theater after all.

"My spirits won't be so high again until I see those damn rebels running from our bayonets, sir, but it's certainly a start."

Alfred's smile vanished from his visage, replaced by a sympathetic expression.

"Still, you should try to keep your own morale up. You'll learn soon enough that a leader with low spirits sees his troops suffer under it. It's a war, McDowell, so give them the hope and confidence they truly need." Alfred said with a sober expression as he glanced back at the Union soldiers.

"Aye, sir." McDowell affirmed respectfully. Alfred may have looked young, but the general knew how many battles and skirmishes the blue-eyed nation had been a part of. He wasn't about to disregarding the man's experience.

"Good, because we're going to need that hope." Alfred raised his hand to point to one of the tall rises on their left. The glow of firelight and movement could be seen from the crest, looking like wispy, scarlet and black ghosts from their considerable distance. He'd only noticed it after they'd begun to crest the ridge on the other side of Bull Run, but that discovery made his stomach knot painfully.

"Is that…?" One of the officers behind them murmured.

"Seems as if the rebels beat us to Matthew's Hill." Alfred growled savagely. This would not be an easy victory if they were going to have to take the hills from the fortified Confederates.

* * *

><p><strong><em>July 20, 1861<em>**

The young nation sat in his makeshift quarters with only a small lantern to see by. His shoulders were hunched and his hands were clasped together while he sat cross-legged in the center of his tent. He had been sitting like that since McDowell's army had arrived and set up only a few hours earlier.

In his mind, Alfred thought he should to be trying to get whatever sleep he could before they had to attack the Confederate defense, but Alfred knew he would never have been able to fall asleep in his current state. He had felt an ugly, crawling feeling of foreboding creeping into his thoughts ever since he had spotted the rebels. It made him shudder, and his tensed muscles twitch. With a series of deep, controlled breaths, he forced himself to relax as much as he could. He let his troublesome thoughts drift to their current situation.

After Alfred pointed out their enemy, McDowell had called for the Union army to make camp at the edge of Sudley Ford; it was far enough away to keep the rebels in sight, but still out of reach of their guns and cannons. It wasn't exactly the most secure position to take, but it would make do until they were ready set up an offensive line and roll the cannons into position. Besides, the Confederates were heavily entrenched, as far as their scouts had reported, which meant they weren't about to give up their advantage to attack the Union camp.

Alfred loosed a tired yawn before removing his service cap and heavy navy-blue coat. He tossed both into the farthest corner of his tent, where the rest of his mostly unpacked traveling gear lay. He unbuckled his heavy belt and sash as well, tossing it over into the mounding pile. It made a sharp clacking sound as it struck something metallic in the heap.

The young nation cocked a brow curiously, leaning over to see just what had made the distinct noise. Rummaging through the upper layers, Alfred pulled both his infantry and cavalry sabers from the pile.

_It must have been these_. Alfred deduced, seeing that metal hilts were exposed from the scabbards and would definitely have made such a keen sound if the belt buckle had struck them.

Setting the standard infantry sword aside, he laid the sheathed cavalry saber across his lap, and carefully removed the blade from its case. It was a bit longer and straighter than his standard sword, and much more ornate. Its hilt and guard were decorated with fine carvings of stars and an eagle head pommel. He skimmed his hand over the flat of the glimmering steel. Both blade edges were razor sharp, unblemished from the honing and polish Alfred had done before they had left the capital.

Even the black, leather scabbard was carved beautifully, embroidered with fine golden threads that matched Alfred's cavalry sash. Etched into its front in perfect cursive script were the words "Old Wristbreaker."

The blond nation chuckled softly to himself. The hefty blade had certainly earned that name among his cavalry, but it was an extremely effective weapon, especially with Alfred's unusual strength. The blade had been with him since before the war with Mexico, and he'd made sure to keep it in pristine condition. He cherished the mighty blade as he fondly recalled it being gifted to him by a group of his finest West Point instructors many years ago.

Holding the saber up to catch the lamplight, he marveled at the sheen of blade. Tilting it slightly, he could see his own reflection staring back at him on the blade's flat side.

Alfred looked over his haggard expression with disdain.

_You need some serious rest_. He told himself. With his free hand he touched his cheek where the muscle had sunken in a bit, giving him a thinner, unhealthy appearance. The young nation couldn't recall the last full meal he had eaten. He couldn't even remember the last time he had an appetite for one. Alfred could barely keep down the sparse army rations they had been eating on the grueling march. Just the thought of food made his stomach become uneasy.

Alfred closed his eyes with a sigh, bringing the blade back down to lay across his lap again.

"_I'll put you out of your misery, boy."_

His eyes shot open, suddenly darting about, but there was no one except himself. He forced himself to block out the awful voice that had been haunting him for months now. He couldn't exactly pinpoint just when the smug taunts had begun, but had certainly been a troubling occurrence that was becoming more and more frequent. Most of the time, he tried to ignore the dark voice, and did so once again.

Alfred went to sheath Wristbreaker, deciding it would be best to rest for as long as he could before they would charge Matthew's Hill, even if he felt awful. When he did so, he once again caught sight of his reflection. Only it wasn't truly his.

The blue-eyed nation stared in horrified awe at the figure staring back at him from the blade's flat side. It looked exactly like Alfred, only where Alfred's face was pallid and somber, this man's was smirking dangerously. A murderous, vile glint shimmered in his steely-blue eyes that pierced through Alfred and transfixed him in horror.

Alfred blinked to clear his eyes, sure that he was hallucinating. When he saw the blade again, only his startled expression remained in the glittering steel.

As quickly as could, the blond nation returned the saber to its scabbard and set it as far away from himself as possible.

_I'm loosing my mind! I've got to get some sleep unless I want to be seeing things out on the battlefield._ He tried to reassure himself, and sprawled out on one of the few things he had unpacked: his sleeping bag.

Just as he laid his head down on the uncomfortable fabric, someone rapped on the wooden support post of his tent. The low noise grated on Alfred's already raw, tired nerves.

He rolled over on his back with a frustrated growl.

"Enter!" He snarled.

A young officer drew back the flap of the tent, and knelt at the entrance.

"Sir, General McDowell says to wake and help him organize the troops at the base of the hill. We're due to storm it within the next few hours."

Alfred nodded, gesturing for the officer to leave with a rough wave of his hand.

"Tell McDowell I'll join him in a moment."

"Yes, sir." The man said before stepping back and letting flap of the tent fall shut.

The blue-eyed nation didn't move for a few minutes, too exhausted and distraught to do anything more than stare up at the slopping canvas ceiling.

"_Come and face me, coward!"_

Alfred snarled at the voice, bolting upright to grab his coat and sabers with renewed vigor from the taunt. He dressed quickly and dashed from his tent to the horse line. There was no time to be lying about; he had a job to do…

* * *

><p><strong><em>July 21, 1861<em>**

"Steady, boys!" Alfred bellowed into the wind as he galloped his charger down the firing line. "Down and prepare to fire!"

Instantly, the first row of soldiers went on their bellies, while the line behind them knelt, and leveled their rifles in proper formation. He drew his horse to a halt and glanced back at the cannoneers. They stood anxiously beside the heavy artillery machines, watching the milling officers restlessly.

"Cannons, aim high!" Another officer ordered from behind the blue-eyed nation. "On my mark, a five-second fuse!" There was a brief pause that seemed to last for all eternity as Alfred stared up Matthew's Hill into the line Confederate infantry glaring down at them. He could hear his heart thunder in his chest and feel the hot blood soaring through his veins as he waited for the start of the battle.

"Fire!"

The thunder of the cannons was deafening as they shot over the firing lines and slammed into the hillside. Bodies and dirt were thrown into the air as the shells struck their intended targets. Blood and churned soil flew into the air as cries of pain and surprise filled the smoky sky. The line of entrenched gray-coated soldiers scrambled back, trying to keep away from the bombarding cannon fire.

Alfred drew Wristbreaker from its scabbard on his saddle and raised it high into the air. While he had his rifle strapped to his mount's saddle, he always found the saber to be a much more effective tool: both for intimidation, and mounted fighting.

"Fire the guns!" He roared.

A horizontal line off silvery smoke erupted as the Union line fired up at their enemies atop the hill. Bodies toppled to the ground and sprays of blood splattered the dirt as more Confederate soldiers fell before the Union volley.

From the crest of Matthew's Hill, the enemy order to return fire came, and the Confederate soldiers leveled their guns. A second row a coiling smoke burst forth as the enemy infantry loosed a volley of shots.

As the shots fired down the hill, Alfred spurred his horse into a gallop to move to the left side of the line. Bullets flew through the air, striking down many on the front line, but the young-nation did his best to ignore the death cries of his soldiers. A few of the shots slammed into the ground near his horse's hooves but he ignored them as well.

An officer shouted for the charge to begin, and the familiar call of the bugle echoed into the air above the sound of gunshots. Alfred glanced back with a panicky expression. The charge was too soon! Why weren't they letting the cannons do the work and thinning the enemy lines? He would have liked to hang the man who would be foolish enough to give such a misplaced order.

He twisted in the saddle, watching in horror as the firing line dove forward. He would have tried to call them back, but it was already too late as the line began to shift.

A clamorous roar went up as the Union line tried to advance upon the tall hill. They dashed forward, running straight into the disorganized line of firing Confederates. He wanted to call them back, to stop the suicidal charge, but could only watch as they scrambled up Matthew's Hill.

Alfred turned his horse to face the ridge, but called back to the officers behind him.

"Keep the cannons firing!" It was the only thing he could do to hopefully push the Confederates back, and spare some of his men.

With that, he kicked his horse hard, and galloped into the fray as the first few blue-coated soldiers made it to the crest, and had begun to engage in close combat the with Confederates. The flash of drawn swords, the sound of metal striking metal, and the stench of death assaulted Alfred's senses as he maneuvered his horse around the corpses of his countrymen with practiced horsemanship. He tried not to look at their faces or twisted, mutilated bodies.

As he came to the top of the hill, he raised Wristbreaker above his head and brought it crashing down on the first gray-coated soldier unfortunate enough to stumble too close. It sliced into the man's shoulder like a knife through butter, nearly severing his arm from his torso. The man wrenched away with howling scream of pain, collapsing to the ground. Alfred swung the blood-slick blade in a low arch to slash another man across the chest, the tip of the saber dragging over his ribs. The man clutched at the wound, falling to his knees before Alfred's charger crushed the man to death under iron-shod hooves as it stomped around the fallen bodies.

The young nation repeated the motions over and over again, slashing, hacking and thrusting at each enemy he approached or dared to stray to near the merciless swings of Wristbreaker. Alfred blocked out the screams and blood as he pressed on. His mind was entirely focused on the morbid act of apathetic slaughter as he maneuvered his massive charger for a better angle at the panicking Confederate soldiers. He dared not think about he was doing as he maimed and slew his countrymen.

Some fled beneath the pounding hooves of Alfred's mount or the razor-sharp steel of Wristbreaker, but those who stayed to fight were met with death. Each slash he made was precise, and the blood flew up with each powerful stroke of the blade. It seemed to permanently spatter the ground, and made the churned grass slick with crimson gore. More than once, his horse slid dangerously over the wet terrain.

By the time the enemy bugle sounded the retreat, Alfred and his mount were spattered with gore and dust, practically dripping with the gritty, reddish residue. He didn't bother to chase the fleeing gray-coats, and raised his voice above the general noise.

"Stay your ground! Do not give chase! Matthew's Hill is ours!" All around him, the Union officers repeated his orders, rallying the scattered troops from horseback, and with the sound of the bugle and drums.

Alfred's charger snorted, flittering uneasily with the gory mess around them. He patted the sweaty animal's side with his free hand before turning the steed away. Alfred couldn't blame his mount for its apparent agitation; he didn't want to look at the grisly scene either.

As he trotted the horse down the hill, he felt his stomach twist and churn uncomfortably in his gut. The scent of blood, visceral and smoke was nauseating. Alfred could feel the slick, hot blood running down his face and neck, soaking into his already stained collar. His gloves were damp with the crimson liquid as well, and the shiny metal of Wristbreaker was muted with the stuff dribbling down the blade.

At the base of the hill, he dismounted, allowing a soldier to take the charger back to the horse lines to be cleaned and fed.

He stumbled shakily to the tree line near the river. He managed to make it to the trees before his wobbling legs gave out and he went down on his knees. It was as if he could feel them dying. Recalling every last slash of Wristbreaker downing enemy after enemy made him feel queasy as he recalled the faces of the Confederates; he could feel their life dwindling away and leaving a sickening emptiness in his chest.

Alfred couldn't control the violent upheaval of his stomach. He gagged and dry hacked as the guilt overwhelmed him.

Coughing, he leaned his back against a slender tree. He spit to clear the acidic taste from his mouth. The young nation loosed a low moan, and squeezed his eyes shut.

If this was what victory felt like, then Alfred was terrified of defeat….

**History:**

**General McDowell was appointed Brigadier General by Lincoln and given command of 35,000 Union troops. McDowell was a young and inexperienced general (hence 'green'), but he'd served under some great names. This was the largest mobile force gathered at the time on either side. Since the Confederate Potomac Army was literally camping right outside Washington, Lincoln didn't want to take any chances.**

**The original plan was for General Patterson's 18,000 troops to keep Confederate reinforcements at bay on their left and attack the Potomac army once they were done with that. McDowell was going to attack their left once Patterson arrived. **

**It sounded like a great plan, but the orders were botched and too many inexperienced officers were trying to give (conflicting) orders. Patterson never even got the dispatch to advance his troops. Reinforcements weren't coming, but McDowell didn't know that. **

**Both sides were extreme disorganized. Ewell' s regiment at Union Mills had a clear shot at attacking the unprotected Union rear column, but was told to hold his position incase of an advance…. But the Union was moving AWAY from him. He was not pleased about this. **

**At Blackburn's Ford, the Confederates were told not to engage the Union scouting party, but dragged them into a fight anyway. No headway was made on either side. **

**There are two very large hills beside the Bull Run River. They are Matthew's Hill and Henry's Hill. The Confederates had taken both by the time the Union arrived. The start of the first Battle of Bull Run was the storming of Matthew's Hill, since the Union needed higher ground. **

**The disorganized charge was somehow effective, but only because the Confederates at the top were just so poorly commanded. Their lines panicked at the cannon shots, and it was easily broken. They retreated and regrouped at Henry's Hill, suffering plenty of casualties. **

**Old Wristbreaker is the actual nickname for the model 1840C saber. The blades were used extensively by the US cavalry in the Mexican-American war and are based off French sabers. They are heavy blades, equally adept for hacking or thrusting. They were the most favored blades well into the 1870s, despite being replaced by the 1860C model. Most cavalry officers chose to wear their 1840C sabers into battle and their 1860C sabers as dress wear for formal occasions.**

**This is only the first half of the first Battle of Bull Run.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

**Hello lovelies, and welcome back to this humble little corner of American history via Hetalia. ;)**

**Reviews: **

**SirenShadow: Ugh, school keepin' you down? I know the pain, my dear. Though I'd love to hear some Canadian history. I'm afraid we don't brush too much of that! But anyway, grazie for seeing the emotional distress Alfred is in. Poor dear! Oh, and I'm so glad I could make your midweek so much more enjoyable!**

**NewMoon29: xD Strange noises, huh? Cute. :P **

**hollowtearsofjoy: Shame isn't it? They're almost entirely blind to the Hell they are putting their usually sweet, cheerful nation through. :(**

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><p><em><strong>July 21, 1861<strong>_

Alfred trudged through the rows of dreary gray tents with a tired frown on his lips. His eyes were downcast to the trampled ground, littered with hoof and boot prints. His sick, dreadful feeling from earlier hadn't passed and seemed to permeate through the Union camp as well. Even though they had managed to win Matthew's Hill, the spirit of victory fell short among the soldiers. Alfred realized they were all exhausted, as much as he was, and probably didn't delight in the fact that the army now had to hold the position.

The general milling of the Union troops, the clipping of scissors cutting bandages as he passed the medic tents, and the snort of restless horses echoed throughout the camp, filling his ears far too loudly as he walked. It made his head hurt with rhythmic twinges of pain as he carried on, bound for his own tent. He tried to block it out, focusing instead on the patting of Wristbreaker bouncing against his hip with each of his strides.

The young nation was almost successful until he entered into the heart of the Union camp, and the revolting scent of cooking ration food assaulted his senses.

He coughed miserably as he passed the mess tent. Greasy smoke coiled in the air as it escaped the makeshift kitchens and cast a thin haze over the area. Alfred's bleary eyes watered, and it made his stomach revolt. The thought of eating after the battle made him even more nauseous than before. The young nation could barely keep the bile from rising in his throat again. He was forced to raise his arm and breathe into the sleeve of his dark blue coat to keep from inhaling the sickening scent.

To Alfred, the walk to his tent was such a miserable journey, that he couldn't help but mentally cheer at the sight of his tent. When he finally approached it, he threw the flap open, not bothering to tie it behind him. He huffed a relieved sigh and began to undress from his sticky uniform. He unbuckled his sword belt, pitching it to the far corner of the tent. He would have to clean Wristbreaker later, or else the blade would stain and dull. But first came getting out of his bloodstained shell jacket and cleaning the blood off his face.

His shaking fingers worked desperately at the clasps and buttons of his coat. He finally wrenched his torso free of his blood-soaked uniform, tossing it to where he'd thrown his saber. He stripped himself of the black velvet collar shirt afterwards. It too was damp with warm, wet gore, making Alfred shiver as he placed it with his coat. For some reason, he couldn't take his eyes off of them. Even darkened from the crimson liquid, the coat was still oddly intriguing to look over. His tired gaze traced the variety of markings across the shell jacket. A single, large gold star was pinned on the breast to designate his special rank as a nation and competent leader. Even the shoulder boards were unique; they were dark blue as any officer general's would be, but Alfred's were stitched with a golden eagle in each field, surrounded by the general's stars. The Chief of Staff of the Army had suggested the coat's adornments to him so that he wouldn't be confused on the battlefield with lower ranking soldiers. At first, the president and his staff hadn't wanted him to be in the fighting at all, but Alfred had insisted on marching with McDowell's troops. He'd fought in every other war his nation had faced, why shouldn't he now? Finally, he broke off from his thoughts and tore his gaze away from the coat when he noticed the gold trim on the epaulettes were dripping blood onto the ground.

Alfred removed his Hardee hat, examining the front brass saber pin as well through somber, half-lidded eyes. It signified his choice in placement with the cavalry branch, along with the yellow stripe that ran down the outside legs of his trousers. He ran his thumb over the cool metal, smearing the few droplets of crimson life spattered on it. The black brim didn't show any stains, the brass would clean easily. Bowing his head, he placed the cavalry hat back on his head, and grimaced when he caught sight of the blood residue on his bare chest.

Alfred touched his fingertips to the hard muscle, painting the pads of his fingers red. The skin was slick from sweat and blood, discoloring his normally healthily tanned skin. The blue-eyed nation loosed a disgusted, shuddering breath. Normally, he wasn't the least bit squeamish, but the knowledge that the gore was the life of his countrymen was something that chilled Alfred to the core. It made his heart ache with agonizing guilt and let his horrid thoughts run rampant.

Pushing the grisly notions to the back of his mind, he decided it would be best to start cleaning his gear before the blood dried and permanently ruined his attire and blade, though he didn't mind that it might very well distract him from his gruesome thoughts, too. Rummaging through his unpacked items, he collected a few clean clothes, a whetstone, his soiled Prussian-blue coat and the black collar shirt. He tucked them under his arm, along with Wristbreaker, before exiting his tent.

He had only made it a few feet from his temporary home when a gruff voice called,

"Hey, cavalier! Where y' goin'?"

Alfred turned to see a small group of soldiers approaching him. They looked just as tired and weary as Alfred felt. Their uniforms were thin, with mismatched blue patches littering their coats, and their faces smeared with dirt and grime. However, one of them bore the colonel's silver eagle on his coat; it was the man who had shouted for Alfred. He bowed his head, and apologized when he saw just who the horseman was.

"Mr. America, I'm sorry about the rude address, sir! I didn't realize it was you. I just saw the yellow stripe-"

"It's fine." Alfred interjected, voice hoarse from earlier when he had been shouting orders. He had absolutely no interest for idle chatter when his throat hurt, or while half naked, exhausted, and covered in blood. The faster he ended the conversation, the sooner he could bathe. "Is there something you wanted?"

"Yes, sir. General McDowell wants to speak with you as soon as you're free. He specifically sent one of the officers to find you, but I guess I had better luck. Also, McDowell said to bring your horse when you come."

Alfred's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"For what?"

"I don't know, sir, as he didn't say."

The young nation sighed heavily. McDowell was just going to have to wait, since Alfred wasn't about to walk into the generals' command tent looking and feeling as he was.

"Very well. Thank you for delivering the message."

The man nodded, turning back to the other soldiers, and ushering them back towards the mess tent.

Alfred felt a twinge of guilt about being grateful for the colonel's departure, but really, what could be so important? And why did McDowell want him to bring his horse? It was an odd request, especially since horses were a precious commodity that needed rest after the long march and battle. What was the purpose of wasting one of the big animals' energy without explanation?

The young nation turned back towards the stream, and massaged his throbbing temples as he continued his walk towards the springs, trying to suppress his persistent, troubling thoughts. McDowell's request had only added to those stressful immersions.

It wasn't a far walk, but with Alfred's whirling mind hindering him, it felt like an anguishing eternity before he could hear the bubbling of Sudley Springs over his discordant thoughts. The blue-eyed nation couldn't help but sigh in immense relief as he stepped down to the mossy bank of the stream.

Alfred dropped his gear unceremoniously on the sloping shore, and removed his Hardee hat before kneeling by the spring. He dipped his hands into the cool water, and began splashing it over his face, letting the water wash away the blood. He repeated the motion few times, until a stream of pinkish, tainted water trickled down into the spring, collecting at the edge of the muddy bank. It eased his churning stomach as well as cleaning his face, for which Alfred was indefinitely grateful.

Alfred had just begun rinsing the blood from his hair when the wind picked up, and the stream blurred with ripples. The nation shivered as the sharp breeze prickled his damp skin. He looked up from the spring to see white, rolling smoke in the distance. It was much farther off, past the ridge that divided McDowell's troops from Patterson's. But there was something about the way the pressure in the air changed, and how the sky seemed to darken as clouds passed over the sun that made Alfred shudder.

The high-pitched whistle of a train shrieked from far away. It was accompanied by low, sickening laughter that turned Alfred's stomach. He glanced back down to the water, and inhaled sharply. The sinister reflection he'd seen earlier in Wristbreaker was now glaring up at him from the stream. Alfred felt his heart speed up, and his breathing quickened.

The dark reflection merely smirked, and the wind picked up again, ruffling Alfred's damp locks.

Alfred barely spoke above a whisper.

"Who are you?"

"_You know me..._" The reflection's voice rumbled with an eerily familiar, heavy Southern accent.

The young nation snarled and his eyes narrowed in annoyance. Before Alfred could retort, another peal of the train whistle wailed into the air.

The reflection laughed dangerously.

The call of the bugle suddenly sounded as well, ringing much closer than the whistle. Alfred bit his lip. That sounded too close, actually. There was no way it was Patterson's troops, as they could never have joined up with McDowell's regiment so soon. It could only mean one other thing: the Union army was under attack.

Alfred turned back to the dark reflection and plunged his fist into the water, dispelling the smirking reflection in his bitter rage.

He pulled on his collar shirt and shell jacket as quickly as he could. He put on his Hardee hat and buckled Wristbreaker back on his hip as he ran to the horse lines as fast his long legs would carry him. Alfred left the dumped whetstone and cleaning clothes by the spring in his furious haste.

When he made it back to camp, he could see that the Union forces were in a mad scramble to reorganize and defend Matthew's Hill.

Alfred didn't bother to search for his own steed in the frenzy of cavalry soldiers grabbing for their mounts; he merely took the first horse he could. He quickly secured the girth straps on the thin, pinto mare before swinging up into the saddle. The blue-eyed man spurred his horse with a sharp kick, and galloped out to the line of infantrymen McDowell had left to keep watch over their hill.

Alfred galloped his charger all the way up the hill and only drew back on the reins as he saw the defensive line. He spotted most of the Union officers trotting their horses up and down the long row of cannons.

"What the Hell's going on?" Alfred shouted as he approached one of the older officers.

"The rebels got bold, sir. We just pushed back their first charge, but it seems they aren't ready to give up yet," He explained. "You see that man there?" The officer pointed with his saber to a Confederate officer that stood with the front line.

"I do."

"He seems to be the man holdin' the rebels together. Been standin' there without givin' ground this whole time."

"Then we'll have to make him move." He responded, unsheathing his sword.

The officer chuckled.

"I'd say that was your youthful vigor speakin', but I know you're even older than I, sir. It's nice to see some spirit though."

Alfred nodded, he didn't feel very thrilled, but didn't bother to disclose that with the officer. Looking over the crest of Matthew's Hill he began to examine the Confederate forces. Their once disorganized, sparse ranks seemed to have swelled to an impressive size, and Alfred could see a variety of officers milling behind the front-line on horseback.

A disdainful sneer curled on the young nation's lips as he saw a new banner had been added to the Confederate line of flags.

He glanced back at the older officer.

"Seems as though the Virginians decided to show up." He observed.

"That would explain the charge. They think they can beat us with reinforcements."

"They might be right. It means they managed to get past Patterson." Alfred murmured in growing despair.

"Which means we might not have reinforcements of our own." The officer finished. He swore when Alfred grunted an affirmative, and then spurred his horse down the line to inform the other commanders of the dreadful news.

Alfred returned his gaze to the Confederate forces. Their gray and mismatched uniforms formed a long blotchy row that seemed to go on forever, or at least until the thick woods that bordered the back of Henry's Hill. Either way, it was still an impressive force, one that would take days to push back from their fortified location. And that was if the Union was lucky. As it was, they were still exhausted from the long march from Washington, along with their first victory over Matthew's Hill.

Alfred growled, and turned his horse. Just as he kicked the mare, another whistle, nearer than before, pierced the air. Its echoing sound continued to rumbled very softly in a continuous howl, confusing Alfred and the soldiers. Slowly, the rumble formed into a steady, cryptic pounding that made the ground begin to vibrate.

The young nation felt his heart speed up and a cold forlorn feeling plunged into the pit of his stomach. There was movement from the right side of Henry's Hill, and Alfred squinted to see just what it was.

From behind the Confederate line, a bugle sounded to charge, yet the infantrymen didn't move.

Alfred's eyes fell back to the right side of the hill, where the movement he had seen a moment became flickering, recognizable shapes.

"No..." He breathed out as the air rushed out of his lungs.

A massive column of Confederate cavalry was storming from the hill straight towards the thin right flank of the Union line. He looked around him in panic. Only a few of the Union cavalry had yet to make it up to the crest of Matthew's Hill, and all around him the infantrymen began to scare as the thundering of hooves rattled the air.

Just as the cavalry swarmed the dip between the hills, the Confederate front line charged forward as well. A few of the Union soldiers began to back away, the fear apparent in their eyes.

Then came the most terrifying sound Alfred had ever heard in all his life.

The Confederates raised their voices above the wind to shriek into the air. It sounded like the tremendous howling of thousands of hungry wolves; like angry banshees wailing into the sky. Alfred was sure that was exactly what an army of demons would have sounded like as they charged their helpless prey. It was deafening, blood curdling, and it struck Alfred with an arrow of fear that burrowed itself deep into his heart. He couldn't blame his fellow soldiers as some of them turned to run from the charging Confederates.

The Union line dissolved into chaos as more and more of the blue-coated soldiers began to flee in terror of the demonic sound of their enemies and the brilliant glinting of cavalry sabers raised high.

"Stay your ground!" Alfred roared, drawing Wristbreaker high into the air, and hoped the fear wasn't apparent in his voice. He had to keep them steady, or else they would lose Matthew's Hill, and maybe even the camp.

It didn't work. The terrified cries of his men mingled with the rebels' shrieks as they abandoned their regiments in sheer horror.

From behind him the order for the cannons to fire came along with the bugle's call to charge. Only the bravest Union soldiers actually barreled forward to meet the cavalry, their bayonets clutched tightly in their hands as they ran to their deaths. Alfred looked on in stunned trepidation, knowing full well that the exhausted Union soldiers were no match for the Confederate cavalry.

_No!_

He had to do something; he had to stop them! The young nation kicked his mare into a gallop, charging down the hill along with the sparse Union cavalry to hopefully meet the superior Confederate horsemen before his doomed infantrymen did.

The leading Confederate cavalier charged straight for the Union soldiers, ignoring the few cavalry that Alfred led. He raised his saber, poised to lance the brave infantryman that met him.

The gray-coated man was startled, to say the least, when Alfred's mare barreled into his mount with a terrified shriek. It sent both riders sprawling to the dirt as the horses collapsed in a tangle of limbs and dust.

The young nation was on his feet first, Wristbreaker gripped tightly in his hand. He stabbed the fallen rebel rider through the chest before he could stand up, and wrenched his saber free as the man went limp. He had made up his mind on the ride down the hill; he would _not_ think about the men he was slaughtering. He had a sworn duty to protect the Union troops before he considered the rebels.

He turned just in time to duck under the sweeping arch of a passing Confederate cavalier's sword. As another horseman charged him, he sidestepped the big animal, and plunged Wristbreaker into its rider's exposed leg. The man fell from the saddle as Alfred drew his blade back, groaning in pain. A Union infantryman dashed forward and finished him off with a bayonet to the throat.

The man looked up to meet the blond nation's eyes for a brief moment. Alfred wanted to give the man hope, and nodded his head in approval with an encouraging smile on his lips. The man smirked, turning to return to battle when a bullet struck him through the head. A spray of blood spattered his face as his corpse struck the ground with a lifeless thud.

Alfred stared in horror at the empty space where the man had once been standing. He barely registered the fact that the Confederate infantry had formed into a firing line, and was shooting volley after volley into the disorganized Union regiments at close range. The flurry of speeding bullets decimated their thinning ranks, sending showers of hot blood into the air to rain down on the trampled ground.

He wasn't sure just how long he stared on in stunned silence, slowly realizing that defeat was imminent. His tired warriors were no match for the aggressive, brutal Confederate tactics and their sweeping wave of cavalry. There was just no way to defend the hill from such a violent attack.

Alfred numbly turned his gaze back up towards Matthew's Hill. Every last one of his cavalrymen had been slaughtered, their bodies and horses littering the slope. The fleeing soldiers had abandoned the cannons, and those that had stayed to fight were being cut down like lambs to the slaughter. He could even see where a brave Union flag bearer was trying to fight off a pair of Confederates with a pistol in one hand and Old Glory in the other. The rebels stabbed the man through the belly, and he collapsed with the Union's banner still clutched tightly to his dying fingers.

The young nation felt hot, stinging tears form at the corners of his eyes as he watched more and more of his countrymen slaughter each other like barbaric monsters. A terrible pang welled up in his heart, making him cry out in pain. He could feel them all, their fear, their anger, their life draining away and the thundering of their murderous hearts. He felt lost in the sea of their dwindling life and furious emotions.

He was momentarily torn from his misery when a bullet grazed his arm. Alfred clutched the wound with a slight whine. He looked up again, and knew the battle was entirely lost. The rebel infantrymen were nearly upon him, carbines trained on those who still tried to fight the desperate battle. He wanted to scream for them to run, to flee from the grisly slaughter, but found his voiced drowned out by the rolling thunder of the Confederate cannons, their banshee yells, the shriek of terrified horses and the moaning wails of the dying.

There was no hope.

Alfred forced himself to turn away from the horror. He couldn't die out here. He had to get back to camp and help the survivors escape.

He ran back up the hill, one hand clutching his wounded warm and the other tightly grasping Wristbreaker's bloodied grip. He felt the bullets slice through the air, slamming into the hillside, and sending up clouds of dust and gore. It stained his blue uniform, painted his exposed skin with the draining life of his citizens, imprinted an unimaginable pain on Alfred's heart as he fled.

Only when he safely away from triumphant howls of the Confederates and the blaze of their guns did he allow those half formed tears to stream down his cheeks. He felt them mingling with the gore spattered on his face as he ran back to the panicking Union camp. All the way there he heard vicious laughter in his head that only made the tears flow even more.

**History:**

**Union uniforms were typically (at least early on) Prussian-blue coats, and sky blue trousers. However, other colors and symbols designated branch of service and all that. Red hats were for marines, yellow stripes for cavalry, green shoulder boards for medics, etc. No, there is no gold star on the breast of a shell jacket for any real rank. It just marks Alfred as a nation in battle. The eagle and stars give him the right to command, as those are the markings of generals. Hardee hats were the precursor to American cowboy hats, and they did look a lot like them. A brass eagle pin held up the left flap, and an insignia and number were placed on the front. Bugles for infantry, cannons for artillery, sabers for cavalry. The numbers designate a company number.**

**The initial fighting at the battle of Bull Run looked like it would lead to a Union victory. That was, until Jackson's Virginian troops arrived after escaping Patterson across the Bull Run Ridge. His troops took the trains to Manassas Junction, which is just behind Henry's Hill. He reinforced the Confederate lines, swelling their ranks to over 30,000 men. This is the battle that Jackson got his nickname "Stonewall Jackson" because even as the Union fired into the rebel ranks, he stayed his ground and became the biggest morale boost for the Confederates.**

**Stuart's cavalry became the decisive force that won the battle when he finally arrived. His regiment swept through the Union ranks with ease, breaking the right flank and scattering the Union line. The Union cavalry was disorganized and inferior to the Confederates, making them easy targets as well.**

**This is also the Union's first encounter with the Confederate war cry: the "Rebel Yell."****It's actually rather eerie, sounding much like a shrieking wolf's howl. It's described as a sharp yelp, followed by a deep baying sound and then a long, loud yell. Coming from more than thousands of charging Confederate soldiers, it was so terrifying that their Yankee counterparts fled and tales of 'demon screams' reverberated through out Union camps after the news of Bull Run reached the rest of the army. **

**Here is part of a lovely, short documentary on the rebel yell. The old guys demonstrating sounds kind of goofy, but imagine the true scenario of a battle in the the 1860s. 30,000 of these shrieks in the air, the deafening blast of cannons all around you, horses shrieking, blood flying and bullets in the air. It took a brave, brave soul to make it through these battles. **

**youtube. com/watch?v=buZ1M3iN-UE**

**(Remove the space)**

**Reviews? :D**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

***waves* Back again for that Wednesday update! :) I'm actually really flattered by you lovely readers/reviewers! Chapter 6 seemed well loved, but I'm sorry this chapter isn't quite as spectacular. Also, a warning to you all... I have no idea how to make a flashback. There's just a break in the text, so tada~! Flashback starts there. :D**

**Reviews (There's a lot to go through this time!) :**

**Kay: xD I know right. As much as I love historical documentaries, I get chills listening to that awful sound in my head. Lol, well, judging by the feedback, dear, I'd like to say it was enjoyed. ;)**

**Tristipe: Oh yes, it will get worse. So much worse for dear Alfie~! *grins evilly* **

**Michelle: *nods* Most of Europe scoffed at the American system during this age. It was totally untried, and from their viewpoint was obviously failing (Civil wars don't tend to just pop up out of nowhere, y'know?).**

**.cornflower: First off, you have a long, but pretty pen name. I love cornflower blue! ^^ Once upon a time I had my room painted that color. Well, as I've said, I'm always thrilled to know people are actually learning from this. It makes me feel better about slaving over the gritty details to ensure the , really? No reenactments? I guess we're just weird like that! *shrugs* They're kind of fun to watch. :)**

**hollowtearsofjoy: Amen! *sniffles***

**Maxi Aero: aww, that's cute. But thank you very much. *blushes* No worries about the formality. :)**

**Mofalle: Yay for learning! Yes, military uniforms, rankings, etc. are just so intricate and fun to understand. :)**

**Loca: N'awww, you're too sweet. :D I can't explain to you how much fun it is to write these kinds of things and I'm just grateful that there are folks like you that can actually appreciate the historical interweaving of both the event and the tangible human pain Alfred feels.**

**TG: Soon, my dear~! ;)**

**Kitty-Kat Allie: Haha, "Look there men! Look at Jackson standing there like a stone wall!" ~ General Bee. :D I love the legacy of Stonewall. And I see someone noted the flag-bearer. It really put that whole into perspective for me when I first thought of the scene. **

**Negative-Girl: Well, thank you, dear!**

**Georgia's Bay: Uh... I wasn't planning on really going into the regiments. Sorry.**

**Siren Shadow: Nope, you made it on time, dear! ^^ Haha I live in the South-Eastern United States, but you still technically made it in time according to FF's clock. Woot for Patriotic fanfiction! Yes, the reflection is the Confederacy. Not quite an entity of its own, but very much a part of Alfred that he can't help but see now that he's a clear threat. Well, by the end of this, I hope to give a bit better understand of the war that came close to giving the world 2 Americas to deal with. xD**

**Thankies to Kay for betaing this and trying to help me work around the most awkwardly written flashback scene in the history of Hetalia fics! Go me! ^^**

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><p><em><strong>July 22, 1861<strong>_

Alfred watched the shifting clouds in the dismal sky through his hazy vision and the stinging drops of cascading water. A peal of nearby thunder rolled through the air, making Alfred flinch. He sucked in a sharp breath as his cramped body shook from the pain of his jerky movement. Forcing the pain back, he closed his red-rimmed eyes and drew in a deep breath to try and relax his jittery nerves.

Alfred rolled his stiff shoulders, wincing again as the nerves twitched in pain. He shuddered at the faint, uncomfortable tingle that slithered down his spine. He clutched his carbine tighter against his chest; the sleek metal of the long gun pressed just beneath the underside of jaw, the smoothly finished barrel lay across his jugular. Through it, Alfred could feel the quick, nervous tempo of his racing pulse.

He shifted uncomfortably. The thick muscles cording his legs were cramping from sittingin the same position for so long. The thick mud encrusting his uniform didn't help his discomfort either. The blue-eyed nation heard his eight Marines shifting stiffly behind him as well. They were all completely drenched and plastered with the same sticky soil Alfred was.

Opening his eyes, his gaze flicked to the others milling restlessly about on the short grass of the White House's South Lawn. Most of them were still mounted on the same horses they had ridden in on hours earlier. The worn animals huffed into the damp July night, leaving steaming puffs of their breath to curl in the air. They stepped with long, stiff strides from the mud that had spattered up from the surrounding countryside and dried on their legs. Their riders were just as filthy, covered in muck and sweat from their ride and soaked from the rain.

It was only lightly drizzling now, but it was cold, and accompanied by rough gusts of wind that penetrated even the thick shell jackets Alfred and his Marines wore. The wind lashed the air, making the brightly colored flag raised on the lawn snap loudly, startling Alfred yet again. He looked around, dazed, but quickly shook it off with a sigh. The young nation hugged the carbine closer, thinking back to the awful hours after the defeat at Bull Run.

* * *

><p><em><strong>~ Shatter ~<strong>_

* * *

><p>General McDowell ordered him to take a group of riders back to Washington to warn the city that the Union line was falling back. He had a terrible fear in his eyes that unnerved Alfred as he had galloped away on his big charger. Both of them knew that defeat so close to Washington would surely mean a Confederate counterattackon the capital. The young nation didn't dally. He took the first horse offered to him by McDowell's Marine guards and took off. Alfred hadn't even lingered to bandage his wounded arm.<p>

A small battalion of cavaliers rode with him from the disastrous battle site at Bull Run all the way back to the capital to warn the president. He recognized most of them, mainly because they were McDowell's guards and generally stayed close to him on the battlefield. They were all hand picked, and Alfred knew them to be excellent riders. Still, even this weather would challenge them because while the march to the little river had been arduous, the full-tilt gallop back to DC was a rider's worst nightmare.

Soon after the Union Army broke rank and begun to retreat, the skies opened up with a torrential downpour. The fat water droplets quickly soaked the churned Earth, turning it into sloshing mud that completely saturated the ground and left sticky muck to cling to their horses' legs. It sloshed and tugged at the chargers' legs, sullying their drenched fur and turning the ground into a death trap.

At a hard gallop, Alfred's heavy charger got its leg stuck in the vacuum-like mud and crashed to the ground, throwing the young-nation to the sloppy muck as well. While the horse shrieked and fought to stand on the slick ground, Alfred ordered the other riders to go keep going, and that he would catch up. The ferocity of his barked order sent them galloping away without questions. The blue-eyed nation was tiredly relieved that he didn't have to fight to get them to go. They didn't have to time to dally, as the Confederates wouldn't be too far behind them.

With great care, as not to be kicked or bitten, he managed to get a hold on his scared steed's reins, using his abnormal strength to keep the animal from throwing its head up and further hurting its already sore mouth. He didn't have to think about what he was doing as he held the horse's head down, and calmed it with a few strokes down its thick neck; his whole aching body was on autopilot, guided solely by pumping adrenaline, pain and fear. A quick check on the horse's legs revealed only what might be some bruising from the fall, but it was almost impossible to gauge an accurate evaluation through the mud and dark overcast of the clouds and rain. He didn't have time to worry about it. He just hoped the charger could press on.

The blue-eyed nation carefully remounted, trying to support more of his own weight as the horse began an uneven gallop once again. It took a few wobbling steps at first, but lunged into a gallop when Alfred kicked its flanks.

Alfred had barely been able to see through the blasting sheets of rain. He was forced to rely more on his inner sense of direction than his sight to tell he was heading the right way while galloping down the twisting paths through the Virginian countryside. It made his heart hammer in his chest, leaving the thunder of his pulse to nearly drown out the irregular sloshing of the mud beneath his charger and the rolling howl of the rain.

Arriving in the capital was no better than the race there. When he finally made it onto the cobblestone path leading into Washington he was met by a flood of panicking people rushing about in the streets. Alfred would have marveled at the way news spread so quickly, but was more preoccupied with the masses of people and horses rushing by, packing against his already injured steed.

The charger threw its head back, baying in fright. Alfred had to yank sharply on the reins to force the big animal to turn its head and gallop down a narrow alleyway. The nation yelped as his legs were smashed against the brick wall of the building's alley side when the horse finally pushed through the crowdand skimmed the side of the building. Alfred gritted his teeth past the pain, and tugged the reins to get away from the wall. The throbbing in his leg reawakened the trauma of his other injuries, leaving Alfred nearly blinded by searing pain. His leg hurt, his arm hurt, his head hurt, but the terrible agony ripping at his heart was the worst. He couldn't stop though. He had to get to the White Houseand make sure everyone was safely evacuated before he could think of his own wounds.

Galloping through the alleyway had led to yet another crowded street, though not as bad as the main road. Alfred gave his mount a harsh kick to push through the throng of people, wincing as he shifted his bruised leg. The horse snorted, froth bubbling from its mouth, but barreled through, nearly tipping over a team-drawn carriage with a rough shove. Alfred weaved his horse through the crowds as best he could with his bad arm and fading strength.

Thankfully, the further they moved into the city, the less crowded the streets became, and eventually Alfred loosed his hold on the reins. He let the exhausted horse slow to a walk as they stepped onto the South Lawn and Alfred spotted Lincoln, along with his Marines, on the top steps of the first floor. He could see that none of them had changed out of their worn uniforms, and all of them were soaked to the bone, including Lincoln.

Alfred's first thought had been to panic. Why hadn't his Marines taken Lincoln somewhere safe? Why were they still out in the rain? Did something else go wrong? He forced himself to shake off his anxiety. This wasn't the time to get flustered. He had to stay calm. But still, why were they waiting for him in the rain? Gritting his teeth, he leaned his head back to shout to them, but stopped when he saw Lincoln gravely shake his head. The young nation blinked in confusion, and dismounted from his horse. What in the world was going on?

The charger was sweating profusely, trembling from exhaustion as it stumbled after Alfred, head bowed and panting. Its rider was no better. Alfred had to fight to keep from falling over. His knees felt like jelly: boneless and wobbly. His sore leg barely supported his weight, and the thick uniform he wore suddenly felt as if it were made sopping wet bricks. It was ridiculously heavy, weighted down by blood, sweat, mud and rainwater. It clung stiffly to his skin making him unbearably uncomfortable. He wrenched at the tight collar with trembling hands, unbuttoning the clasps desperately as he approached the stairs that led into the White House. He stumbled the last few steps to the base of the grand staircase.

He looked up at them in despair. He wasn't getting up those, and he knew it. He had already lost the battle, and now he would lose his pride if he had to climb them. But he couldn't bear the shame of having to give up in front of his leader either. And so Alfred set a booted foot on the bottom step and hauled his weight up. Every sore muscle in his body protested with violent shocks of pain, and Alfred found himself shaking uncontrollably.

The weary blond looked up again, and nearly howled his misery; it seemed like the staircase led on to oblivion. He was only on the first step and he was already about to pass out. He realized then that the only thing that had kept him going after Bull Run had been pure, burning adrenaline and his unnatural strength. Now both of those reserves were exhausted, and he was only moving forward by sheer willpower. And now that was about to crumble as well.

_No! I won't lose again!_ With furious determination, he repeated the motion and ascended the second step. The young nation's heart hammered so loudly that he was sure even the president waiting for him at the top of stairs could hear it slamming against his ribs, but he pressed on. They were watching him. He wouldn't let them down.

_You can do it, Al! C'mon!_ He pushed himself, gritting his teeth as he managed the third step. _You made it this far; you can't let a staircase beat you!_ His next step wavered, and he felt himself begin to lean dangerously to the left. His labored breathing quickened as he made it up the fourth step. He had to keep going. He couldn't stop. It felt like the whole world, and not just Lincoln and the Marines, was watching him. He couldn't fail.

As he set his foot on the top of the fifth step, his ankle twisted painfully, and the young nation cried out in agony as he collapsed on the unforgiving stairs. Alfred's vision blurred as his head hit the sharp ledge, and his glasses clattered down the stone steps. He moaned in pain, squeezing his eyes shut as fresh, hot tears welled up in the corners of his eyes. He couldn't do it. He simply didn't have the strength to make it up the stairs, or even pick himself up to try.

Alfred had to turn his head away as he heard his Marines come rushing down the stairs, crying out in alarm as they watched their nation crumble to the smooth steps. He wouldn't let them see him cry. He already felt ashamed as it was, losing the first battle of what was supposed to be an easy war and stumbling back to nurse his wounds, only to collapse in front of his leader. Alfred simply couldn't bear the shame of crying in front of the brave soldiers who had fought beside him, as well.

The weary nation felt their hands on him, trying to get him back to his feet. Keeping his head bowed and his eyes shut Alfred let them lift him up, and support his weight. He leaned on them as they half dragged, half walked him up the stairs. He could feel their sympathetic gazes on him as they proceeded, but Alfred dared not meet their eyes. Instead, he counted each step as they ascended, desperate to block out the pain and misery forming a raging, agonizing tempest in his body and mind.

At the top of the steps, they started to head inside, but Alfred jerked free of their grasp with a desperate effort. He stumbled backwards, and was barely able to stand on his own two feet. His Marines looked on in concern. Alfred finally raised his head and met their tired gazes.

"Go inside…. Clean up…. Rest." He ordered through panting breaths, vision swimming.

"Al," Lincoln's voiced pierced through the rain just behind Alfred, "follow your own orders." The president said.

Alfred looked back at him. His dim, blue eyes were at half-mast from exhaustion, and the blond could barely make out his leader's blurry shape, but knew from the tall figure and voice that it had to be him.

"No, sir." He murmured, bowing his head. "The Confederates…they could be…. here… at any moment…"

"And what will you do, Al?" Lincoln asked softly. "You're in no condition to fight."

Alfred grimaced at the observation; Lincoln was right. He could barely find the strength to stand, which he wouldn't be able to do in a moment anyway. But still, that didn't mean he was going to rest just yet. He had to make sure that even if he couldn't fight, his Marines could. Let them rest, and he would stay to guard the President at least.

The young nation beckoned one of the Marines closer with a trembling gesture. The man approached Alfred wearily, trying to meet his gaze. Alfred deliberately averted his eyes as he asked for the man's carbine, which was strapped on his back. The Marine, unsure if disobeying a nation would be wise, unclasped the strap and gingerly handed it to Alfred.

The young nation clasped it to his chest, stumbled to the ledge of the portico and ungracefully sat down with his back to the president and his Marines. They stared dumbfounded at the exhausted nation until Alfred, unable to bear their gazes any longer, turned his head and smirked tiredly.

"You've got…your orders…. follow… 'em." He wheezed.

"Pardon, sir, but I can't do that." One of the Marines spoke boldly, but without arrogance or cruel defiance. "As you said, the Confederates could counterattack at any time. I won't be caught sleeping when those damned rebels attack!"

A collective agreement rose from the other Marines, making Alfred smile. Leave it to his own soldiers to warm his suffering heart. They were all exhausted, bloodied and battered, but refused to abandon their posts just yet.

"Fine…" Alfred whispered after a short, pregnant pause, before turning his head away.

He listened to them disperse, some returning to their horses while others began to take up watch along the ledge. One even fetched Alfred's glasses. The nation numbly accepted them, fumbling to perch them back on his nose before quietly thanking the Marine.

Once everyone seemed to settle in, and Alfred was just beginning to doze off with the carbine still clutched to his chest, Lincoln cleared his throat. The tall president patted Alfred's shoulder carefully, trying to be mindful of any other wounds that might be hidden under the nation's heavy uniform.

"Al, I sincerely wish for you to go inside and rest. I think you will need all of your strength for the bad news I must deliver." Lincoln murmured so that only Alfred could hear him above the wind and rain.

Alfred groaned, feeling the pain in his heart renew with a terrible pang. He hunched his shoulders, clutching at his chest. Hadn't he suffered enough?

"What now?" He choked out.

Lincoln hesitated a moment, giving the blond's shoulder a sympathetic squeeze before breaking Alfred's heart even more.

"Great Britain has refused to revoke their declaration of neutrality, and their delegates are speaking on terms of approval with the rebels. I fear we may be looking at a Confederate recognition soon, especially with this first loss. In fact, I've already begun to inform our blockade to be on the look out for British envoy ships. This failing Anglo-American alliance troubles me."

"You… really believe… Arthur would…?"

Lincoln blinked curiously, wiping at his eyes as rainwater dripped into them. He was fairly certain that Alfred had meant to say 'Britain', but hearing the blond murmur the island nation's true name with such despondency struck a painful chord in his heart. He could only nod gravely, unable to reassure Alfred with any words of comfort.

"I'm afraid so, Al."

"Arthur's going… to betray me…" Alfred whispered, voice choked off by the pain. "He's going to… to betray me…" The blue-eyed nation said again, tears beginning to trickle down his cheek and mingle with the cold rain. "I love him…and he's … he's going to… betray me." It came out like a mantra as Alfred whispered the words again and again into the rain, not caring if Lincoln could see his tears or hear his cracking voice.

"It's not official yet, Al, and it's only one battle we have lost. There is still hope. Please do not despair." Lincoln pleaded.

Alfred slowly looked back at him, eyes red-rimmed and tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Sir, if you could. …f-feel what I do …right now, you'd know ….that it's not j-just the first ….battle I've lost." He whispered before shrugging Lincoln's hand off his shoulder, bowing his head, and whimpering softly as his another surge of overwhelming pain stabbed his heart.

_I've lost the love of my life, too…._

**History:**

**After the 1****st****Battle of Bull Run, there was a massive panic in Washington. People who had ventured out to watch the battle fled in terror at the approaching Confederate line and the entire city was thrown to Chaos. Every Northerner was sure that the rebels were about to attack****Washington DC. However, they didn't because of a poorly organized chase after the fleeing Union lines and a heavy casualty number. The Confederates were not expecting such an overwhelming win and hadn't exactly planned to follow the Union back to DC anyway.**

**By this time, the Anglo-American alliance that had finally begun to take shape in the 1850s was crumbling quickly. The Union was infuriated (especially Mr. Seward, the Secretary of State) with the British declaration of neutrality. It was considered an insult, saying that Great Britain recognized the CSA as a belligerent, and not just a rebellion. It was only a few steps away from recognition. If that happened, the Union was sure that Britain and the rest of Europe would become their enemies.**

**Seward wrote scathing letters to the British government, threatening war if Britain dared to recognize the CSA as a sovereign power. Lincoln had to rewrite the letters much nicer so that he didn't actually start a war with Britain. He even told the American ambassador to Britain to only use the mildest quotes of the letters when he spoke with Lord Lyons about it, and only with great discretion as well.**

**The Confederates were working out plans to get around the Union blockade at this time, as well. They wanted to send a fast steamer through the line to get to either the Bahamas or sail straight to Britain (the second idea didn't work). It was no secret either. The Union was very much aware of their plans and tracked the Confederate diplomats****' ****movements throughout the South.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

**I'M BACK. :) Hi guys and gals! *waves* Sorry it's been so long. Things should be back to normal though. :)**

**Reviews: **

**lovelesscat: Sorry it took so long, dear! D:**

**Pickingbloodyroses: Awww, thankies! :3 Yes, poor baby! Artie loves hi, he just won't admit it!**

**Crimsonbutterflyteardrops018: I know, I'm a sadistic author, aren't I? :( **

**hollowtearsofjoy: Oh, I have something better than that. ;)**

**Michelle: He did, and you know he's not over it either. Yes, usually, and to maintain appearance and all that. No. Just no. Please don't get me started on the term 'Dixie.' The only time Dixie is allowed in my vocabulary is Winn Dixie, as in the grocery store. I just- errr, it's too misused and so vague in origin/meaning. Sorry. I'm weird like that. And of course he does. They're still his citizens, and he hates himself for having to hurt them. It's almost literally destroying him with guilt. **

**TG: *sobs with you***

**Kay: Of course Al looks up to Lincoln. Poor thing, and no, it's not bad. :P I wanna write it just for the sob-fest I will have to muscle through.**

**Oz the Magician: Hehe, thanks! ^^**

**mofalle: Oh yes, much worse. But it's always darkest before the dawn, right? And thank you, dearie. I think everything is all cleared up now though. :)**

**~ Oh and hey look guys, I got a tumblr! Follow me, please? My writing goes up there along with funny stuff, usuk art and few other animes/shows too. :) hellieace. tumblr. com**

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><p><strong><em>November 15, 1861<em>.**

Alfred leered down at the table, tracing his fingers over the soft, worn paper of the map of North America that was spread out before him. His index finger followed the rough outline of the East coast of his land, stopping at Charleston, South Carolina. He stared at the spot pointedly, wondering if the Union blockade would be enough to keep the Confederates at bay. More importantly, was the blockade secure enough to keep any Confederate envoys from escaping to Europe?

The young nation folded his arms on the map and rested his head on his forearms tiredly. He desperately hoped his fleet could keep Davis' envoys back. If not, then Alfred was sure he was doomed. If they made it to Britain and France, he knew he would have no chance of winning the war, and suddenly Lincoln's warning haunted his mind. Alfred knew without a doubt that it was absolutely true; Arthur was willing to betray him.

Alfred felt a stab of pain pierce his heart. Of course Arthur would attack him if the opportunity arose. It wasn't as if the older nation felt the same longing affection Alfred did. No, Arthur was a cunning, old nation who knew how to get ahead. He hadn't survived and prospered this long on niceties and kindness. He had gotten to be the strongest empire in the world through military prowess, a blooming economy and a tendency for winning fights that he knew how to pick and choose. If getting what he wanted meant crushing a part his former colony, he would do it. And Francis was probably no better, Alfred reasoned. The blue-eyed man had watched the Napoleonic wars carefully; Francis was certainly getting bolder these days. He would have brooded on the depressing subject further, but a voice called his name.

"Mr. America! Sir, come quickly!" An officer shouted as he suddenly rounded into the East Room with a bounding step.

Alfred looked up from the massive map detailing the projected paths of the Confederate envoys bound for Europe with an annoyed expression. He wasn't in the mood to deal with any more upsets in this ill-fated war, or anything for that matter. Why couldn't the White House staff just leave him alone to plan and sulk simultaneously? He had already been bothered by two maids, a mail carrier and four officers regarding information on the Charleston blockade. He was going to wring the next man's neck if they thought to inform him that Manson and Slidell had changed runner ships _again_.

"What now?" Alfred snarled, rising from his seat, and scowling at the officer's excited grin. What the hell did he have to be so happy about? It wasn't as if the Union was actually winning the war!

"We just received a telegram from Virginia, sir!" The man exclaimed excitedly, motioning for Alfred to follow him with a wild wave of his hands.

"Virginia?" Alfred wondered aloud, and followed after the young officer.

"Yes, sir! Captain Wilkes and the _San Jacinto_ wired us a telegram from Virginia. He says he's captured Mr. Manson, and Mr. Slidell, sir!" The officer called back, turning the corner into the Cross Hall. Alfred was right on his heels, his heart thundering wildly. One of his frigate captains had captured the Confederate envoys? Finally, it was something to be grateful for! Alfred could feel the grin spitting his face as he darted into the telegraph room where a plethora of jubilant officers were crowded around each other.

Alfred burst into joyful laughter as the telegram was urgently shoved into his hands, confirming the news. Manson and Slidell were indeed in the hands of Capitan Wilkes and he was awaiting orders regarding where they should be shipped for imprisonment.

Alfred shoved his way through the cheering army staff to the telegrapher, who looked pleased, if only a bit frightened by all the cheering officers crowding his normally quiet office.

"Wire this message to Wilkes," Alfred said, waiting for the man to prepare a fresh sheet, "Send prisoners to Fort Warren, Boston, stop."

"Is that all, sir?" The telegrapher asked, tapping in the message quickly.

Alfred nodded, and clapped the wiry man's shoulder with a wide grin on his lips.

"That's all. Now look lively! We've finally got something to celebrate about!"

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><p><em><strong>December 4, 1861<strong>._

"That worthless little brat! How dare he arrest envoys on _my_ ship!" Arthur snarled dangerously as he paced. The clacking of his boots on the floor reminded Matthew of a restless lion's claws clicking against the tiles. The angry Brit certainly looked just as ferocious as a wild lion: his teeth were bared, and his untamed, golden hair was messier than usual. His deep green eyes were narrowed and glinting with murderous intent as well. The angry bite in his words only added to the image.

"Britain, sir, if I might say-" Matthew started, his voice barely a whisper and almost inaudible beneath the sound of sharply clacking boots.

"Get on with it, Canada!" Arthur rounded on his colony, voice raised in annoyance.

Matthew shook his head, and sighed. There was no sense trying to reason with the Brit now; he was too worked up to have a civil discussion with. These kinds of moods were typically reserved for when Francis was being an unusually painful thorn in Arthur's side, but now it was directed at Alfred.

"Never mind." Matthew whispered, twirling a lock of his hair around his index finger and casting his violet gave to the floor.

Arthur snorted in annoyance. He hadn't meant to snap at Matthew, but still, the Canadian should learn to just say what he meant! Arthur didn't have the patience to decipher his quiet dismissal right now. He had Matthew's obnoxious and audacious brother to deal with at the moment. But watching Matthew's disappointed gesture made a twinge of guilt pluck at his heart and so he decided to simply change the subject.

"Has he said anything to you about this?" Arthur asked, coming to a halt in front of the Canadian. He glared down at the seated nation with piercing viridian eyes that made Matthew shiver under their ruthless glare. It made him feel a bit guilty, but he was glad that Arthur's true wrath would be directed at his twin, rather than himself.

"About the envoys? No, sir," he answered quietly.

"He hasn't threatened you at all?"

"Not since Aroostook."

"No troops on the border?"

"Just the regular militia, and even their numbers have thinned," Matthew answered earnestly. What was Arthur getting at? It wasn't as if he had anything to worry about in regards to his brother; Alfred wasn't going to attack him! They had been on fairly decent terms for a while now, and Matthew knew Alfred was busy with this 'War of the States' as it was being called. "Britain, I don't think he intends to start anything. I think he just wanted to keep the South from reaching you or even Francis."

"I heard my name! And I know that sweet, Canadian voice! Oh, Matthew~!" Francis' singsong voice rang through the big open room as he sauntered in.

Arthur whirled around, snarling at his old rival.

"It's about bloody time you showed up! I've been waiting on your ambassadors for days now!"

"_Mon dieu_, Arthur! What has gotten into you? You look as if you're ready to kill somebody!" Francis exclaimed in mock horror as he walked over to Matthew, who offered him a small smile in greeting. In actuality, the Frenchman wasn't the least bit shocked about Arthur's rabid appearance. The Brit was easily riled in matters concerning his former colony, and Francis had heard all about the seizure of Arthur's mail carrier and the Southern envoys aboard it. Not to mention, over the many centuries he had known Arthur, the Frenchman had grown accustomed to Arthur's odd moods.

Francis gave Matthew's shoulder an affectionate squeeze, returning the tiny smile with a slick grin of his own. His fingers twisted to tussle the curling tips of Matthew's dark gold hair, making the Canadian blush lightly. Vaguely he heard Arthur continuing to talk, but Francis was too absorbed in watching Matthew awkwardly smile up at him to notice the Brit's ranting.

"Francis, if you insist on fondling my colony while I'm trying to talk to you, I'll run you through on a bayonet! Are you listening to me, frog-face? Francis! Francis, you bloody twat, answer me!"

The Frenchman sighed, diverting his bright blue gaze from Matthew to Arthur.

"_Oui_, Britain. I heard you. What do you want me to do about it?" He really wasn't sure whether Arthur was looking for condoling advice about his former colony's actions, or just needed another person to vent to. Judging by Matthew's slouched posture, he had guessed that the Canadian had already heard the brunt of Arthur's tirade.

The island nation narrowed his eyes and snorted.

"Nothing, actually. I want you to stay out of it."

Francis cocked a perfectly groomed brow.

"Stay out of it? Is that all? I was willing to take your side in the matter!" Francis shrugged his narrow shoulders, ruffling his flamboyant cloak.

Arthur gave him a suspicious glare, his green eyes trained warily on the Frenchman.

"I'm not sure I believe that, especially with your interest in the West Indies."

"Rest assured, _mon ami_, I want nothing to do with _you,_" Francis said slyly, and giving Matthew a suggestive smile. "I have other interests." The Canadian looked away, his cheeks aglow with a burning scarlet tint.

The emerald-eyed nation snorted in disgust.

"Go away, Francis, and stop ogling my colony."

Francis tossed his wavy hair arrogantly and loosed a dramatic sigh.

"I come all this way to take your side and this is how you treat me? I knew you were cold, _mon ami_, but not this cold!" He jested, but made his way to the door. "Perhaps I should stick around and enjoy your cities before returning to my side of the channel? That is, if Matthew plans on lingering as well?"

"Actually I was-" Matthew started, but was interrupted by Arthur's quick, curt interjection.

"Matthew was just about to leave. I'm sure he's worried about his border while Alfred is acting so brazenly."

Matthew sighed quietly, casting his gaze back to the floor. Honestly, what was Arthur so worried about? It was just one mail ship, and Alfred hadn't shown any other sign of aggression. This wasn't 1812, but Matthew wasn't about to bring that up to the already irate Brit.

Francis chimed in just before he vanished out of the meeting room with a little wave.

"I find it very amusing that you're letting such a simple matter get you so flustered, Arthur. I get the feeling it has something to do with the other simple fact that it involves your dearest Alfred."

"He isn't 'dear' to me, Francis! Hey-!" He shouted, but Francis' laughter could be heard from behind the door he had already slammed shut. The Brit growled, but didn't bother to follow after the flamboyant Frenchman. Instead, he turned back to Matthew. The Canadian could only offer him a sympathetic shrug regarding both Francis and his twin, Alfred.

Arthur threw his hands up in wild exasperation before storming away, and leaving Matthew alone to worry over the situation at hand.

* * *

><p><strong><em>December 26, 1861.<em>**

"Al, I have some interesting news," Lincoln said as he walked up to the big wrought-iron desk Alfred sat at.

Alfred looked up from the book he was reading. It was a thick, dusty guidebook on international law that Alfred had borrowed from one of the many lawyers the White House kept around. He had been reading and studying it whenever he had the chance. Since he generally didn't sleep much anymore, he was finding more and more time to catch up on all the legalities he hadn't studied since Arthur had been his caretaker. He nodded silently and slammed the book closed. A thin cloud of dust flew up from the worn, yellowed pages, but quickly dispersed in the air.

"What is it, sir?" Alfred sounded exhausted, and Lincoln couldn't help but wonder how long it had been since the blue-eyed nation had gotten more than an hour or two of sleep. The thick, dark circles under his eyes and the hazy look over his irises didn't leave much leeway for hope.

"Lord Lyons and Great Britain have arrived. Mr. Adams will be meeting with them tomorrow afternoon."

"Arthur came, too?" Alfred looked up at Lincoln with an expression of longing in his weary, blue eyes, but it was quickly gone as reality set in. Arthur wasn't here to see him. Alfred knew this meeting was about the ambassadors he had seized over a month ago. There had been some earlier exchanges, but it needed to be settled, and soon. The young nation knew if he let it go on much longer, he could be facing a war at sea with his former caretaker: a war he knew he couldn't win.

"Yes. I would like to ask you to accompany Mr. Adams, as a show of good faith. I would hope that as fellow nations, yourself and Britain might be able to smooth this over with greater ease than Adams and Lyons." Lincoln's tone left Alfred room to decline the order if he truly wanted to. The president had been watching Alfred's degradation for months now. Every time he came trudging back from a lost battle, bloody and in despair, Lincoln had made sure to be there. He was quite fond of the young nationand the Union he represented. Although he may not have fully understood Alfred's inner pain, he did try to offer whatever relief he could. He wouldn't force Alfred to go to the meeting, but for the sake of the Union, Lincoln hoped he would.

"Very well, Abe," Alfred said with a yawn chasing his words. "I'll try to fix this. Is there anything specific you want me to address while I'm talking to Lyons?"

"I've already given Mr. Adams the agenda. I was more hoping that you could appeal to Britain himself. I want this to be resolved with positivism on both sides."

Alfred nodded in understanding, though wasn't exactly sure how he was going to reach a positive outcome. He doubted Arthur would have any sense of Lincoln's 'positivism' considering the subtly aggressive messages that had already been relayed between their human representatives. The threat of war had been hinted at numerous times, and it set Alfred on edge. It was exactly why he had brought out the ancient law book to ensure that he was in the right should it come to a sea skirmish. All of his lawyers and law experts told him that he was perfectly within international law, but Alfred had his doubts. While the order to seize the _Trent_ had never been officially given, it didn't override the neutral right of the British mail carrier. The ship hadn't been brought to port to be inspected, which meant that if Arthur wanted a war, he could have pressed the charge that Alfred's ship had raided the neutral mail boat as an act of war. The young nation hoped it wouldn't be called that and he could retain the legal high groundif he needed it.

"I'll try to talk with him," Alfred assured, hoping Lincoln would catch the subtle dismissal in his words. If he was going to have to meet with Arthur and Lord Lyons, he needed to be up-to-date with his law.

"Thank you, Alfred. Please try to get some sleep as well, won't you?"

Alfred nodded again, skimming his fingers over the worn, leather cover of the law book absently.

"Very well then. Good night, Al."

Alfred said nothing as the door to the East Room shut with a soft clicking noise. The young nation sighed before reopening the law book. There was no way he would be getting any sleep with his impending meeting with Arthur on his mind.

* * *

><p><strong><em>December 27, 1861.<em>**

The heavy mahogany-colored doors to the White House's upper floor meeting room swung open as Arthur and Lord Lyons walked in. Alfred and Adams were already seated at the wide, oval table, but rose to greet them in respect.

Alfred felt his heart sink as he extended his hand to shake with Arthur only to be met with a terrible glare and refusal. Alfred swallowed hard, unable to find his voice when met with his former caretaker's angry leer. He sat back down beside Adams, already feeling the tension thicken in the room.

Adams and Lyons began to talk quietly with each other, leaving the two blond nations to themselves. The ambassadors passed pages back and forth, which were mostly written letters from their leaders, detailing the demands regarding the seizure of the envoys. While the arbitrators talked civilly, the nations brooded in silence: Arthur in anger, and Alfred in misery.

"You're a right fool."

Alfred blinked in confusion. It was the first thing Arthur had said to him the entire meeting. The young nation had been hoping for something a bit more diplomatic, but at least Arthur was talking.

"For what?"

"Everything," Arthur snarled, crossing his arms before his chest. "You can't believe the headache you've given me with your ridiculous stupidity!" The Brit said lowly, but the bite in his words was sharp and pierced Alfred's already sore heart with ease.

"What? Arthur, I didn't mean for this to happen!"

"You will address me properly, America."

"But they're not listening!" Alfred insisted, glancing over at the two diplomats who were locked in a debate over the legality of the seizure of the _Trent_. They didn't seem to even notice the two nations in the room.

"Quite frankly, I don't care if they're listening or not. You will address me as 'Britain' or you will not address me at all."

Alfred sighed wearily.

"Fine, _Britain_, I didn't think this would grow so out of control."

"Then apologize."

"But I'm not sorry. I didn't do anything wrong!" Alfred insisted, but Arthur barked a bit of humorless laughter.

"Nothing wrong? Isn't the seizure of neutral ships illegal? Isn't that why you tried to humiliate me last time?" Arthur spat back, his words dripping with volatile venom that stung Alfred.

"I wasn't trying to humiliate you! You and Francis were out of control! My economy was in ruins! I had to do something!"

"So you declared war?" The Brit snarled, increasing the volume of his voice to match Alfred's rising one.

"You wouldn't listen to me! It was the only thing I could do!"

"War is not the only option! You need to stop acting like a child! You think just because you've won a battle or two that you've got the right to dictate the West! Well, you don't!" Arthur shouted, rising from his seat. "The seas are neutral, and that means we are all free to use them. You had no right to seize my ship! You will release those envoys and declare a formal apology! Am I clear?"

"No, they're my spoils of war! They are traitors, and are being dealt with as such!" Alfred roared, his temper flaring as Arthur fanned the flames with his ferocious words and angry gestures. His face was twisted in a terrible snarl that infuriated the American.

"Fine, then if it's a war you want, it's a war you'll get!" Arthur decreed, stepping back from the table.

"I don't want a war!" Alfred shouted, slamming his hands on the heavy top of the oval table. Neither of the nations noticed that both Lyons and Adams were staring at them with wide eyes; they were too absorbed in their apparent frustration.

"Then what _do_ you want?" The Brit retorted.

"I want you to forget this whole damn affair and help me! Help me beat the rebels so things can go back to normal!"

"No, my neutrality will not change. You will deal with this bloody ridiculous issue on your own! And I will not simply forget this. You are out of line, and I intend to correct you. Apologize and let the envoys go."

"I refuse! If I let them go, they'll run straight to Europe and before you know it, I'll have all of you eastern wolves biting at my throat!"

"Your point? That's reality. There are those that live and those that die, and if you're not strong enough to even control your own people, then maybe you don't deserve the right to live as a sovereign nation."

"How can you say that...?" Alfred whispered in disbelief. "Arthur I-"

"Britain."

"I thought you cared-"

"Therein lies the issue: you thought. Well, America, you thought _wrong_! I care nothing for you or your lands. You have been nothing but trouble since I colonized you. I'm tired of your arrogance and your uppity nature! I'm done here." Arthur dismissed, turning around to head for the door.

Alfred gasped in shock, and moved around the table.

"Arthur, wait!" He shouted, reaching forward to grab Arthur's arm. Just as his fingers curled around the thick fabric of his coat sleeve, the Brit whirled around. He brought his hand up, and backhanded the younger with enough force to make him stumble backwards.

Alfred stood in shock, the whole room going dead silent. Arthur glared back at him.

"I told you to address me properly," Arthur said, his voice as cold as ice. "You're lucky, I won't declare war for this outrageous violation of international law, but know I won't be so willing to forgive again. Don't speak to me ever again, America. The Anglo-American alliance may still be present in politics, but _we_ are no longer anything to each other. Do I make myself clear?"

Alfred simply stared, his hand reaching up to touch the tender red mark left on his cheek. It was more than just a physical wound. It was the mark of an emotional tear so deep, Alfred wasn't sure he would recover from it. And as every scathing word sunk in, Alfred felt the pangs of agony in his heart. Did Arthur really mean that? Were they really _nothing_ to each other? He couldn't imagine a world like that. He had always loved Arthur, maybe in different forms over the years, but he'd never stopped loving him. A crack splintered through his emotions, shattering his broken heart into a thousand pieces. It was over. Arthur hated him and never wanted to see him again.

Arthur snorted, pivoting on his heels and beckoned Lord Lyons to follow him.

"We're done here, Lyons."

The English ambassador rose from his seat, dismissed himself politely, and walked after his nation. He glared at Arthur's suited back as they walked.

"You once told me that I shouldn't worry about your emotions getting out of control. I can't believe that anymore."

Arthur was silent for a long time, but eventually he swallowed hard and whispered in a choking voice, "I'm sorry." And Lyons knew he was crying by the trembling in his voice.

The emerald-eyed nation wiped his eyes with his sleeve, trying desperately to hold back the bursting floodgate of emotions in his heart. The anger had subsided, replaced by the guilty burden of what he'd just done. He had let his anger spill over into his words and actions when he hadn't meant to. He hadn't wanted to hit Alfred or yell at him, but somehow the American always brought his emotions into a frenzy, and this time it was for the worst.

_I'm sorry, Alfred. I'm so sorry. I don't know why I said that. I was just so angry, and that terrible, guilty look on your face hurt my old heart. Oh, Alfred, I'm so sorry. I can't take back what I said though. Please be careful, love, it's not a safe world for you anymore..._

* * *

><p><strong>History:<strong>

**From the beginning of the war, the Confederates knew that they started at the disadvantage and would need outside help and recognition if they were to keep the Union from forcing them back under the Constitution. They tried to send the ambassadors Manson and Slidell that Confederate president John Davis selected to Britain and France. Davis believed that the South's monopoly on cotton would force the European nations to support the Confederates unless they wanted their economies to collapse. The plans to evade the Union blockade changed multiple times. Ships chosen to take the Confederate envoys were switched and so were the routes. Eventually they settled on taking a fast runner ship called the **_**Gordon **_**(It was renamed upon being leased to the Confederates and was called the **_**Theodora).**_**They made it past the blockade to the Bahamas, where they missed the last British ship to sail out, and then sailed to Havana, Cuba.**

**Meanwhile, a man named Charles Wilkes, an aggressive sea captain** **for the US Navy, heard from a newspaper that Manson and Slidell were going to sail to Britain through the Bahama Channel.** **The channel is very narrow, and Wilkes knew he could stop any ship coming through with his fast frigate, the ****_San Jacinto._**

**Wilkes stopped and boarded the mail carrier, the HMS****_Trent, where _****he seized Manson and Slidell as contrabands of war. He sailed up to Virginia where he sent word of his prizes.**** He was never given any federal orders to perform this, but Wilkes was a bold, aggressive man, and never once doubted that he was in the right in the matter.**

**When news of this spread, it made Americans cheer but raised hell in Britain. The economy fluxed quite a bit as the threat of an Anglo-American war was tossed about. Britain began to send and fortify their troops in Canada and the Atlantic. Many tried to name the US a belligerent in trying to start a war at sea due to Wilkes' actions violating international law. It was also claimed by one newspaper that all through the Northern streets, many American lawyers were walking about with their law books, ready to defend their nation's actions. There was a lot of debate about the legality of the matter, and Britain demanded that the envoys be released and a public apology be issued.**

**Seward absolutely refused these demands and wrote scathing responses that had to be softened by first Lincoln, and then Adams. War was talked about until finally Lincoln agreed to release the envoys, but never issued an apology. It didn't leave either side very happy, but most were glad to avoid a war between Britain and the US. Eventually the whole matter was dropped, but through the rest of the war the Anglo-American alliance was very strained. The Union was also very worried that Europeans wouldn't obey the Monroe Doctrine, and might try to attack the weakened US.**

**As a small side note, in the War of 1812, the United States actually did attack Canada and caused quite a bit of damage in their attempt to drive the British (Canada was a British colony at the time) away from their border.**

**France said they would support Britain in the matter of the Trent Affair, which greatly surprised and made Britain suspicious. The French eventually sent ambassadors to Britain to reassure them that the French had no desire to start yet another war with their old rival.**

* * *

><p><strong>Tumblr, remember? :P hellieace. tumblr. com :))) And I swear if FFN does not stop deleting even veiled attempts to make links...then it's my FFN name before tumblr, okay? xD<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

**Since I won't be available this Wednesday, Shatter is getting an early update. :)**

**Reviews:**

**TG: Ugh, damn FFN.**

**Kawaii Rin-chan: Daww! *hands you a tissue* Don't cry, love. :)**

**hollowtearsofjoy: Oh yes, as broken is putting it mildly.**

**Oz the Magician: Poor Al, getting yelled at. But England really does love him. It's just a rough time. **

**Michelle: Actually, that's a really good speculation. :)**

**Mokuren no Ken: Yeah. I think angst just about sums up this whole story. xD**

**Tazzy200: Thanks, sweetie!**

**Chocovanille: The Voice is the CSA, yes. Haha, and yup. "Look there men! Look at Jackson standing there like a stone wall." ;) But thanks! Glad you like it so far!**

**Naademai: Hmm, I guess I misread that little bit. Ahh well, It's become an established part of the story at this point, so I think I'm just going to keep it. Thanks anyways. Yeah, I've never been quite so keen on voting procedures. xD And don't worry. There's a huge difference between flaming and just pointing something out. :)**

**Chi-Chan11: Aww thanks! And as for your question. It really just depends on the scene. I look up extensive battle plans and field positions for battles, and the layout of White House. The historical figures are something i research a lot, but as for other minor things I generally just pull from memory. Terminology and such is something I'm very good at. :)**

**Onward, brave souls!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

**_March 8, 1862._**

Blazing fire and black smoke rolled across the darkened waters of the Hampton roadstead. The thick, oily clouds above the dark ironclad, once his own ship the _Merrimack,_ blotted out the colors of the sun beginning to set and choked the salty sea air. Her peaked hull broke the water, looking like the length of a massive iron crocodile as she plowed through the waters. It was the most terrifying ship Alfred had ever seen afloat.

Surrounding the deadly ship lurking in the water was the rest of the Confederate fleet sent to break the Union Blockade. A tall warship with the name _Beaufort _scrawled across her side carved through the water at the forefront.

Alfred flinched as the _Beaufort_'s powerful cannons blasted a breath of fire from her hull; the massive cannon ball splashed into the water only a few yards from the side of an unfortunate tug that had opened fire on the oncoming Confederate fleet. The tug blasted her guns again, missing the _Beaufort_, then retreated before the tall ship could return fire.

Alfred shifted uncomfortably in the saddle as he watched the North Atlantic Blockading Squadron move to engage. The wooden ships glided through the water, churning up huge wakes that sent the normally calm waters rolling to crash against the rocky face of Sewell's Point. But Alfred couldn't hear the lashing of the waves against the craggy spires beneath him past the pounding of his heart and the roar of the cannons.

He watched in sheer horror as the _Beaufort_ dropped back, allowing the _Virginia_ to steam forward, charging straight for a pair of Union ships, the sloop-of-war _Cumberland_ and the frigate _Congress_. Both ships opened fire in a volley of iron shot that sailed over the water and slammed against the _Virginia_'s plated armor. They bounced off her sides uselessly, but still the ships kept firing in a gallant display as the ironclad plowed towards them.

The _Congress_ broke off, moving to avoid Confederate return fire. However, the _Cumberland_ stood her ground and kept firing even as the massive cannons on the _Virginia_'s sides began to pummel the wooden sloop with iron shot.

Alfred gripped the reigns of his sable-brown steed so hard that his knuckles popped loudly, but he didn't seem to notice. His wide blue eyes stared on in fear as the _Virginia_ drew closer and closer to the weakened _Cumberland._ It felt as if the iron beast was charging straight for him instead of his helpless warship.

The sloop-of-war's bowed hull gave a loud, agonized groan before splintering into a thousand pieces as the _Virginia_'s ram crashed through her. Ropes and masts snapped as the rush of the incoming water struck the broken _Cumberland_. The ship lurched, her bow creaking and snapping as she began to sink beneath the churning waves.

_"That's one down."_

Alfred startled, suddenly dropping the reins of his charger, and clutching at his aching heart. Even from this distance, he could see the forms of his navy men trying to escape the deathtrap that was the sinking _Cumberland_. Some dove from the deck, but others stayed to continue firing the cannons. Fire and iron scorched and battered the _Virginia_'s gleaming sides and she sloshed in the water, her ram still wedged into the dying _Cumberland_'s wooden flank.

"Stop… get away. You can't beat it…" Alfred whispered into the wind as it gusted over Sewell's Point and twirled the ashes and smoke from the battleships in the water. Behind him he vaguely heard the sound of his officers and their nervous horses skittering about from the sudden breeze.

_"Stupid boy, these are my waters..." _The awful voice began to snicker, but stopped almost immediately.

A wicked grin suddenly formed on Alfred's lips. Out in the roadstead, the _Virginia_pitched dangerously, water sloshing across her sides and flooding the cannon ports. The prow of the ship tipped forward dangerously, making the ironclad lurch as the _Cumberland _listed, her shattered hull sinking beneath the waves.

Alfred leaned forward in the saddle, his eyes glittering with hateful anticipation. The _Virginia_'s ram was stuck in the hull of her enemy's ship. Alfred grinned wider as the _Virginia_'s flat foredeck dipped completely beneath the water. The sloop was going to bring the ironclad down with her to their watery graves. The _Cumberland_ and her crew would be a necessary sacrifice to bring down the monstrous Confederate ironclad. Alfred decided even as his heart twisted from the sickening notion. So long as that terrible ironclad couldn't sink another of his ships, he didn't care. He would have given anything to see the _Virginia_ sink beneath the waves and be forever out of Alfred's mind.

_Drown her! Drown the ship and her crew! _He thought with wild anxiety; the _Cumberland_'s desperate crew all but forgotten now. Alfred focused solely on the heaving waves as they dragged both the dying sloop and the ironclad into the roadstead's murky waters.

The _Virginia_ fired off another round of cannon fire, and a loud bang snapped the tense air. Alfred's shoulders drooped, and the terrible voice sniggered maliciously. The _Virginia_'s last volley had been enough to detach the ship from her dying victim, and the ironclad steamed away from the watery grave of the _Cumberland._

_"No such luck. Now get out of my waters." _The voice ordered sadistically, making Alfred feel weak and guilty. He had completely lost himself in that single moment, wishing death on his own soldiers at the mere prospect of drowning a single Confederate ship.

Alfred could have sworn he heard the screams of the dying crew of the sloop-of-war as they were sucked under with their ship. Even if it couldn't be, Alfred felt it in his chest. He suddenly felt as if he couldn't breathe, and the water that was rushing into the lungs of his dying navy men was pouring into his own chest. Alfred doubled over in the saddle, coughing miserably.

His officers rushed to his side, asking if he felt ill or if he ought to get down from his horse or head back to camp. Alfred didn't respond to any of them, the feeling of drowning had paralyzed his entire body. There was an immense pressure on his ribs, pushing down on his heaving chest, threatening to burst his lungs. His insides burned and seized, desperate for the air Alfred knew logically had to be there.

_"Because of you..."_

The pressure intensified, and Alfred's eyes began to water as the sound of more cannon fire rang out into the twilight air.

_"They will suffer..."_

The blue-eyed man shook his head, tears pooling at the corners of his eyes and trickling down his cheeks. Beneath the roar of cannons he could vaguely hear his officer's calling his name. No. Not his name, but his official title as a nation. 'Mr. America', they kept saying.

_"Alfred, this is _your _fault." _And the voice fled from his mind, giving Alfred a brief moment of respite.

His eyes were unseeing as he slowly came back to reality. He tiredly looked up and watched as the _Cumberland_'s long prow pointed to the sky before vanishing beneath the waves, leaving nothing but rubble and bodies adrift in the water. There was a long pregnant silence as the waves that had once surrounded the sloop calmed and left the water perfectly still.

_"You lose."_

"Shut the hell up!" Alfred roared, his anger sparking to life as the taunt rang clearly in his mind. He angrily swiped at the tears cascading down his cheek, snarling all the while. The terrible pressure on his chest was gone, but the burning, residual ache in lungs left him panting harshly.

"Mr. America-"

"I said shut up!" Alfred rounded on the officer that had spoken. His teeth were bared in a feral snarl, and his eyes blazed with hate and pain. The officer looked taken aback, but didn't dare speak again under Alfred's terrifying order. The rest of the officers cluttered around him, following his lead, and stayed silent.

Alfred looked back to the sea, glaring death at the ironclad _Virginia_.

The _Virginia_ swung about, heading straight for the frigate _Congress_.

_"Let's make it two, shall we, boy?"_

The ironclad charged, cannons blazing. The _Congress_ was quick to flee, grounding herself in shallow water where the _Virginia_'s ram could not reach her vulnerable wooden hull. Another Confederate ship, the _Patrick Henry,_ came alongside the ironclad and loosed a volley of cannon shot upon the stranded frigate as well.

Alfred couldn't bear to watch the frigate fight helplessly against the two ruthless ships. He turned his steed away, looking down upon the small battery of troops that were watching from the base of Sewell's Point. Beneath them, his medical regiment was waiting on the beach. Volunteers were wading out into the shallower waters to collect the bodies of their dead comrades as the tide brought them in. Alfred let his blue gaze follow the long line of the dead that had already been brought in. They lined the shore neatly; their blue and white-trimmed uniforms were so dark from the Hampton water that they appeared to be garbed in black. Alfred thought it looked much like the fallen were ready to proceed to their untimely funerals.

The young nation glanced back at the officer he had snapped at earlier.

"Count _all_ the dead. I need to report back to Washington. And do it quickly."

The officer looked up, and then out to the water where the _Congress_ seemed to have surrendered, as her gun ports were closed.

"That could take hours, Mr. America. And what of the rest of the North Atlantic Blockaders?"

"Just do it!" Alfred retorted, squaring his shoulders.

"Yes, sir." The officer agreed, turning his gray steed about and heading down towards the beach. Alfred watched him go with steel-blue eyes before returning his gaze to the battered _Congress_ near the shore. The sharp crack of rifle fire suddenly broke the tense silence and Alfred twisted in the saddle to peer down the beach. Along the north shore, a firing line had formed and was blasting the nearby _Virginia_with bullets.

"Who ordered that?" Alfred rounded on his surrounding officers, glaring death at each one. They all shook their heads or muttered their innocence. Alfred snarled and forced his charger to the very edge of the vantage point. He glared down at the firing line.

"Cease fire!" He bellowed as loud as his weary lungs would allow, which was still extremely loud. It seemed to work, as most of the firing line looked up to Sewell's Point, squinting from beneath their service caps. Alfred watched the line slowly disperse as the soldiers paced restlessly along the shore.

A blaze of red streaked over the water, catching Alfred and his officers' attention. The red ball struck the deck of the _Congress_, followed by another round of blazing shot. Alfred bowed his head, letting his gaze fall to the ground as the _Congress_ quickly caught fire from the hot shot fired from the _Virginia_. The frigate's wooden deck and sails were eaten away by a great roaring blaze that sent a column of flames into the air. A pillar of white smoke rose up, mingling with the oily black cloud the _Virginia_'s battered smokestack produced. It left the air searing with a putrid stench and burning heat that choked the blue-eyed blond's sore throat and aching lungs.

Alfred covered his mouth with the back of his gloved hand, eyes narrowed and watering from the sting of the hot air as the wind blew the embers of the burning _Congress_ over Sewell's Point. He turned his horse away, giving it a rough kick to start down the tall vantage point. His officers coughed harshly around him as they followed their nation's lead.

As Alfred's steed took its last airy step down the slope, a massive explosion shook the ground. The blue-eyed man looked back as a column of splintering wood and fire was thrown into the air. The fire burning the _Congress _had finally reached her munitions magazine and set the explosive artillery ablaze. The ignited gunpowder had exploded, obliterating the wooden frigate.

_"That's two now. Care to make it three, boy?" _Deep, cocky laughter echoed in his mind as Alfred snarled, yanked his horse's reins and kicked the animal into a hard gallop. He sent the animal charging down to the beach, determined to find out the count of the casualties and get back to Washington as soon as possible.

As his horse's hooves alighted upon sand, the various field medics and soldiers suddenly looked up. A general murmur bounced around the gathered Union troops, piquing Alfred's curiosity. He stood up in the stirrups, balancing one hand on the pommel as he craned to see out into the roadstead where his troops were looking. In the dark of the night, he nearly missed the glimmer of polished metal against the water. A massive cylindrical turret sat just above the cresting waves, resting atop the flat deck of a long ironclad. The ship's deck rose just above the water level, her heavy draft plowing through the murky waters just beneath the surface. The low ironclad had a Union flag and a Union Navy Jack raised on the poles at her stern.

"What is that?" One of the medics near Alfred murmured.

The young nation didn't answer, but sat back in the saddle and looked back up to Sewell's Point. The wind picked up again, blowing and embers through the air as Alfred smirked. With the Union's ironclad, the _Monitor_, in the roadstead, Alfred thought it would be a much fairer fight. And while he wanted to watch the _Monitor_ in action, he had a more important duty to attend to.

Dismounting, Alfred left his horse to his officers before treading the sand to where the medics were trying to tend to the injuries of the _Cumberland_'s few survivors and volunteers. The dripping wet soldiers looked up from their places on the ground as their nation approached. Most of them were panting and looked exhausted from dragging in all the waterlogged corpses.

"How many dead?" Alfred asked quietly.

None seemed willing to answer until a medic behind him cleared his throat and spoke somberly.

"From the _Cumberland_, we lost more than one hundred, and with _Congress_ at least another hundred, sir. But I'm afraid we might be about to lose more." The man looked out to the Hampton roadstead and pointed. Alfred had to squint, but he could see the dark outline of another grounded frigate, the _Minnesota_, on the other end of the shore. The battered ship was barely out of range of the deadly _Virginia_, but was clearly surrounded.

Alfred switched his sapphire gaze to the _Monitor_. It was steaming straight for the _Virginia_, its rotating turret aimed for her rival warship.

He mentally cheered for his ironclad, wishing a terrible fate on the _Virginia _and her crew of rebels. Much to his dismay, the _Virginia_ suddenly turned around, leaving with the rest of the Confederate fleet. The ship's black smoke vanished as she rounded one of the promontory points and disappeared into the natural harbor of the bay. Alfred chuckled quietly to himself.

_Coward!_

_"Just you wait, boy. I will break you."_

* * *

><p><strong><em>March 10<em>_th__, 1862._**

"Those iron ships are frightening, Abe," Alfred leaned heavily against the sturdy doorframe leading into the wide bathroom. "Once I thought Britain's fleet was the single most terrifying thing on the sea," He shook his head. "Now I'm not so sure." The young nation sighed heavily, weary muscles aching miserably beneath his dirt-plastered skin.

The president nodded solemnly, his deep brown eyes glimmering with sympathy. The pale lamplight cast sharp shadows that seemed to further deepen the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and the worry lines across his forehead.

Alfred met his leader's eyes for a long moment before shifting to lean more of his weight against the doorframe. His hip ached from the added pressure, already sore from the long ride from Sewell's Point back to Washington. He blinked, letting his blurring vision fall to the ground at his feet. He didn't much feel like talking, even to the one person who could barely begin to understand his pain.

Without the desire to continue this brief session, Alfred cleared his throat and said with a dismissive tone:

"I call it a loss, Abe; a terrible, pointless loss."

Lincoln gave another small nod before gently patting Alfred's grimy shoulder. He didn't seem to mind the soot, dirt, and blood that sullied his hand as he drew back.

"Go and bathe, Al, and then go to sleep. I'll be sure to inform the servants not to disturb you."

"Thank you…" Alfred breathed out, exhaustion stealing away all the gratitude that he tried to express in those simple words. The allure of a bath to wash away the guilt and grime was all too appealing for Alfred to even care though. He watched Lincoln incline his head as a goodbye before vanishing down the long hallway to retire to his own chambers.

Mustering up every ounce of strength, the weary blond pushed himself off the doorframe to stumble towards the bathtub. He gave the door a little push, hearing it click shut a moment later.

Twisting the faucet-like handles at the tub's front, Alfred started letting the hot water fill the narrow, claw-footed tub. A puff of steam bubbled from the faucet, making a terrible impatience sear in his tired nerves and muscles. He just wanted to be out of his battered uniform, and soaking in luxuriously warm water, completely forgetting the awful image of his drowned sailors still haunting his mind.

With a sigh, Alfred raised his tired arms up to begin undoing his filthy shell jacket. Each of the large brass buttons and corded clasps challenged his shaking fingers, frustrating the blue-eyed man nearly to the breaking point. By the time he reached the last button, Alfred simply wrenched the coat open, a frustrated growl spilling from his sore throat. He pitched the coat aside, uncaring of where it landed. The black, sleeved shirt beneath was nearly torn off as well, and carelessly tossed away.

Thankfully, his belt, sword strap and sash came away easily. Pushing his grimy trousers off his legs left only his boots. Alfred struggled to get them off, as his entire body protested his awkward movements to practically tear them off.

Once he was finally free of his Union uniform, Alfred wasted no time in turning off the spigot, and climbing into the tub. He hissed at the sudden heat, but sank all the way down until the water came up to his jaw. As the heat crept into his muscles, alleviating the knots, tension and pain, he couldn't help but arch his back, stretching his long legs out until his toes bumped the far side of the tub.

As he let his body straighten out again, relaxing against the shape of the tub, a sudden, dreary thought came to him: _how would it feel to drown?_

Alfred shut his eyes, the water softly lapping at his cheeks and making his oily hair float beside his head. He wondered if it hurt, if it was like the same pressure he felt at Sewell's Point. The image of the _Cumberland _sinking danced across his vision, the dark waves swallowing the ship and her crew.

Alfred let his eyes flutter open for a moment, his gaze faraway as he sucked in a deep breath, and finally let himself sink completely beneath the water's surface.

There was faint pressure against his ears, but other than that it was completely silent. The polished white walls of the tub gleamed oddly from this angle, he noted. It was eerily comfortable, he realized, as if he was in a whole other world. There were no sounds, no tragic sights: no gory mess from the battlefield, no shrieking of horses and wails of the wounded. Pure nothingness.

The blue-eyed nation let his eyes close in his brief moment of peace. At first, there was nothing, but then came a faint sound. It was sharp, but seemed far away at first: like the splintering of wood. Alfred furrowed his brows, concentrating on the sound.

A blood-curdling scream followed, startling Alfred and making him jerk violently. His eyes snapped open, but the comforting ivory walls of the familiar tub were gone. A murky darkness surrounded him instead, the churning of black silt rushing around as if tossed up from his sudden movement.

Alfred looked around wildly, starting to feel his lungs beginning to ache. All around him dark debris was slowly sinking down on all side. Frantically, he looked up. The silhouetted figures of bodies at the surface greeted him with a morbid ache in his chest. A great circle of silvery white illuminated the surface far above his head, pieces of it blotted out by moving, black clouds. He realized it had to be the moon.

Alfred desperately pushed himself from the gritty bottom, his muscles still unbearably tired. Clawing frantically, he started the slow, arduous swim to the surface. His lungs were burning, desperate for air, but the surface seemed so far away. More debris sunk below him, their moment churning the water, sucking him down with it. Every small inch he gained seemed to be lost as the water continued to drag him down.

No amount of panicked kicking and thrashing got him any closer, and the rush of water and screaming filled his ears. His chest constricted in pain, and the cold water around him made a terrifying contradiction to the searing burn in his lungs.

Finally, his body could take no more, and his lungs flattened out, only to suddenly be filled up again by brackish water as Alfred released his held breath. He clawed at his throat, panic seizing his entire body as his limbs flailed in violent spasms and Alfred sank back down to the silted bottom with the debris.

The dying tempo of his heart, the rush of water, and the screams of his sailors filled Alfred's ears as his vision went black. His muscles no longer had the strength to work, and his lungs were close to bursting from the intake of water. There was nothing left, Alfred realized. This was what drowning was like; it was utterly terrifying, cold and left him numb to the surface world. There was no one to save him, no lifeline, no hope.

The blue-eyed man couldn't simply let go. No! He wouldn't die here. Alfred refused to die this cruel, miserable death. With one last surge of strength, he threw his entire being into his final, dying moment and lunged for the surface.

Alfred burst through the water's clear top, frantically clawing at the rim of the porcelain tub. He hauled his upper half out of the water, doubling over the lip. Alfred was coughing horribly, his lungs aflame and his chest heaving. The coughing turned to vomiting up the bathwater he hadn't realized he'd swallowed. It left him feeling weak and disgusted as he limply hung over the edge of the tub.

Alfred only realized he was crying when the beating of his heart had ceased to fill his ears and a low, dark laugh replaced it. He could taste the salty tears as they streamed down his face, reminding him of the brackish water that had engulfed his sailors.

He hung his head, and began to sob quietly. He cried for his sailors, for their families, for the sunken ships and for himself. He cried for his home, and his people. He cried until the water was cold against the bare skin and the voice had left him to wallow in his misery alone.

Alfred had never felt so cold in all his life.

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><p><strong>History:<strong>

**On March 8, the Confederate ironclad, the **_**Virginia **_**came into the Hampton roadstead where The North Atlantic Blockading Squadron was guarding. Her wooden escorts engaged first, since they moved much faster than the ironclad and two Union frigates, the **_**Congress **_**and the **_**Cumberland**_**, met them. The**_**Virginia**_**plowed ahead, undeterred by the cannon shot that bounced off her hulls. She rammed straight into the**_**Cumberland**_**, smashing the ship open. The sloop-of-war didn't stand a chance and quickly sank. Most of her crew was dragged down with her. However, she nearly turned the battle, as the **_**Virginia**_**'s ram was stuck in the **_**Cumberland**_**'s hull. By sheer luck, she escaped, but had taken considerable damage from the point blank range of the **_**Cumberland **_**and part of her ram snapped off. To the **_**Cumberland**_**'s credit, she is said to have inflicted more damage than even the Union ironclad, **_**Monitor**_**. This battle is called the Battle of Hampton Roads, but you'll probably hear it as **_**Monitor vs. Merrimack**_**.**

**You might be wondering about these ships. A frigate is (generally) a fast, lightly armed warship with tall sails, a lower draft and excellent maneuverability. However, they tend to easily fall prey to larger rifles mounted on bigger ships. The**_**Congress**_**was a standard frigate. The **_**Cumberland **_**was a special class of frigate and sometimes called a sloop-of-war. She had an extra deck solely for another row of cannons, and extra guns scattered about her. She was slower than the **_**Congress**_**, but could deal much more damage. The term frigate is also very loosely used. In this era, frigate generally referred to the type of ship the **_**Congress **_**was, being developed after British ship of the line prototypes. They typically had no guns on their lowest deck, which was called the gun deck for some strange reason. They had three full masts and carried 28 or more guns.**

**Anyway, after the **_**Cumberland **_**sank, **_**Virginia **_**forced **_**Congress **_**into shallow water and stranded her. Although the ironclad was about useless at the distance due to her extra deep draft, she kept the **_**Congress **_**from being any more of a nuisance to the Confederate ships. Eventually, when troops on the beach fired at the Virginia, her captain ordered the surrendering**_**Congress**_**to be lit ablaze by hot shot (cannon balls set in a fire until they turn red-hot and are then fired. They'll burn just about anything on a wooden ship).**

**Between the two ships, more than 200 Union Navy men died. About 120 from the ****_Cumberland_****, and about 110 from the **_**Congress**_**. There would have been more casualties had another Union ship, the **_**Minnesota**_**, not arrived. She was quickly forced aground though. The **_**Monitor **_**showed up just in time to defend her. **_**Virginia**_**'s captain decided it wasn't worth trying to hunt down the **_**Monitor **_**in the dark and turned the ship around for minor repairs and treatment for the wounded (he was actually shot in the thigh).**

**On March 9****th****, the **_**Monitor **_**and the **_**Virginia **_**dueled for nearly three hours in a draw. Almost no substantial damage had been done to either vessel. I left this out, simply because, well…. It was a draw. And it's a very commonly known thing for the American Civil War. Plus it was three-hour long standstill. It did have a tremendous impact on naval warfare though! All around the world, shipbuilding nations like France and Britain stopped producing wooden ships and began full production on ironclads. The days of wooden hulled ships was numbered.**

**Minor bathing history! Andrew Jackson was the president when running water was installed in the White House. Franklin Pierce was the one who installed bathtubs!**

* * *

><p><strong>Also, a brief reminder that I do indeed have a tumblr. *whistles* hellieace. tumblr. com AAAAANDDDD~ Ahro, the author of Quartering Acts(which is fantastic USUK, so go read it) and I now have RP blogs for a usuk Rp based around Fallout! Wooo! Go check them out! <strong>

**I play Arthur: falloutarthur. tumblr. com**

**and she plays Alfred: falloutalfred. tumblr. com**

**Her beautiful art shows up in those as well! ^^**

**Have a safe and happy holiday tomorrow my fellow Americans! And to all my other readers, enjoy your Wednesday! :)**


	10. Chapter 10

**_*waves* Welcome back! Haha, the story is starting to wind down, and there aren't too many chapters left now. Beginning of the end? I think so. ;) Also, I think I went a bit crazy with the biblical references/imagery. Sorry? I'll do my best to explain at the bottom as usual. _**

**_On to reviews:_**

**_OMGPandi: Haha, okay. I'll try not to feel bad. :P_**

**_Mokuren no Ken: It's pretty awesome getting to teach a civil war class without actually teaching one. xD_**

**_HollowTearsofJoy: Ah, no! I can't believed I missed a civil war doc though! I usually scour the TV guide for war documentaries!_**

**_Guest Anon: D'aww, thanks!_**

**_TG: *sob* All I do is torture him!_**

**_Reapergal08: I think you're just fine at reviews, lovely! :) And thank you! Like I;ve said, I think it's the coolest thing to be teaching folks with my writing._**

**_yoink: Lol, well, at least you can connect the dots at the end of the chapter, right?_**

**_SirenShadow! :*hugs* I have missed your lovely, beautifully written, super thoughtful reviews! Ahh, I understand busy, so don't apologize! Yes, Alfred is in desperate need of someone to understand him. Sadly, Lincoln has a riotous nation to run, and can't always be there for Alfred. Aww, new level? You flatter me, sweetheart, so thank you. :) Oh and yes, I love writing in a little Francis. He's a joy to write~! Oh, and you'll never have to worry about me making Canada a wimp. I firmly believe Mattie has got plenty of spine and sass and he'll dish it out if he needs to! Otherwise, he generally just prefers to keep things civil. I mean, seriously, with a bro like Alfred, you gotta know how to hit back! Yes, Arthur is a very proud person as the once massive British Empire. Getting beaten by a punk like Alfred twice would probably leave a lot of resentment and embarrassment. It's not something he tends to forget either. Communication between these two is counter-productive, which only amplifies what might have been a tolerable insult into a vicious personal attack. Haha, and wow, I'm impressed you pulled off the three reviews in one night! So, yes, I had a wonderful fourth of July watching the fireworks from my friend's pool. And I'm glad you had a good Canada Day! ^^ Welcome back, darling!_**

**_Onward!_**

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><p><strong><em>September 16, 1862.<em>**

"There," Alfred pointed past the woods towards a large plateau that sat high on a hill to the north. "Our objective is that church up there." The blue-eyed nation repeated the orders General McClellan had given him the night before.

"You expect my Corps to make it all the way to that hill with less than 9,000 bodies?" The General asked rhetorically. His dark eyes were narrowed in spite at the ridiculous order.

Alfred stayed quiet, and folded up the piece of parchment containing the orders.

"Well, Mr. America, do you?"

"Do I expect you to take Dunker's Church? No. Do I expect you and your men to follow orders? Yes, General Hooker, I do," Alfred said, letting a drop of authority slip into his voice. He hated the scattered plans McClellan had laid out more than anyone, but he was bound to obey like the perfect soldier he was supposed to be.

Hooker flopped ungracefully into one of the chairs set out before his tent. His saber clacked against the wood loudly, grating on Alfred's raw nerves and adding to his already acute affliction.

"This isn't going to work, Mr. America. I can't take 8,000 dug in rebels with one Corps. Don't care if we even got you on our field. You're one man, Mr. America. I couldn't ever see asking you to fight the battle it would take 15,000 good men to win on the best of days."

Alfred didn't disagree. He had his limits, and Lee's army was heavily entrenched into the hills. There was no possible way he could win the fight for Hooker's doomed troops.

"There are two more Corps awaiting McClellan's orders."

"Where, Mr. America?" Hooker looked around mockingly. He lowered the brim of his service cap with an annoyed grimace as he leaned back in his chair. "I sure don't see them."

Alfred sneered. He wasn't in the mood to deal with Hooker's attitude. The young nation squared his shoulders and tipped his service cap in a stiff, formal dismissal. He turned away, heading for his own tent to prepare for the battle ahead. Glancing back, he gave General Hooker one last authoritative glare, as if daring the man to defy orders.

"Just be ready, General. We march for the Dunker Church at dawn."

**_September 17, 1862._**

The graying sky above twinkled with the last light of the stars as the sun began to rise over the broad cornfields set out before Hooker's soldiers. The silvery-green stalks of the corn swayed lightly, nudged by a dry breeze. Alfred thought they would have looked lovely in this light if he weren't mentally preparing himself for the bloody fight ahead.

Alfred sighed wearily, trying to blink away the bleariness obscuring his vision. He had stayed awake the entire night, polishing Wristbreaker and cleaning his rifle. There was no possible way he could have slept anyway. His muscles burned for action and every nerve felt like it was trembling with anxiety. Even the normally calm tempo of his heart hadn't ceased to race throughout the night. A dreadful feeling of nausea rolled over him like a sickly tide, making the blue-eyed blond wonder if this uncoordinated attack was a mistake.

They were supposed to be enjoying the advantage. Their scouts had brought back reports of favorable numbers on the Union side, but Alfred couldn't shake the feeling it wasn't going to be enough. McClellan's scattered, cautious plans just didn't seem like they would effectively work to drive the Confederates out of Maryland. With each passing second, those plans felt more and more like a deathtrap and less and less like a strong offense to break enemy lines.

A sudden, almost deafening blast shattered his concentration, making him startle. Beside him, some of the other soldiers jumped as well, clearly not expecting what Alfred recognized as artillery fire.

"Mr. America!"

Alfred whirled around, blue eyes wide as General Hooker rode up to him on a tall dun horse. He drew the steed to a halt just before him with a worried expression. His deeply set eyes flitted about nervously as he dismounted, coming up to stand beside Alfred.

"McClellan called for artillery first. Apparently, those damn rebels are dug in just across the cornfields in the Sunken Road. Marching through there would be suicide."

"Good, let the artillery dig them out of their holes," Alfred agreed, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat. Something just didn't seem right. Hooker was a cocky man, and seeing him almost pale with worry made Alfred's already frayed nerves jitter with apprehension.

"I still don't like this, sir. Is only my Corp supposed to be advancing?" Hooker inquired nervously, glancing over towards the cornfields where bright flashes were blinking over the stalks and the ground was rumbling from the impacts.

Alfred furrowed his brows, reaching into his breast pocket for McClellan's orders.

"No! Of course not! That wouldn't make any sense!" He grumbled, fumbling to unfold the thick parchment. His shaking hands were clearly betraying him, making a frustrated growl bubble up from his throat.

"These are the only plans I received, Mr. America," Hooker reached into his own pocket, producing the official orders from the Major General. Alfred took the paper, juxtaposing the two sheets as panic began to wrap its cold claws around his heart. No. This couldn't be right. The orders were different. Hooker's orders made absolutely no mention of the other four Union Corps that were meant to march on the Confederate lines as well.

Alfred felt his breathing quicken as he nervously scanned the papers again. He had to have missed something. There had to be some kind of mistake he'd imagined. There was no way Hooker's Corps could take out Lee's entire army.

"No…" He breathed, barely believing his own words as he spoke. "These orders have to be wrong. Give me your horse! I have to get to McClellan or-"

Another blast of artillery fire flew right above their heads, streaking across the brightening sky to crash into the cornfields. Terrible screams and shouts rose up, making Alfred jump again as the confused Union troops around him stumbled back, nearly breaking formation. The cannons behind them started firing directly into the cornfields before Hooker's Corp, showering Alfred and the soldiers with upturned soil and tattered foliage.

"What the hell is this?" He shouted above the noise, but Hooker could only stare at him with a resigned look as the sound of the horns trumpeted above the cannon fire. He raised his gloved hand, pointing towards the fields. Alfred looked, and felt his heart plummet into the pit of his stomach.

The rising sun cast long dashes of light across the corn, sending stray shimmers throughout the stalks: glints of sunlight on metal, almost perfectly concealed in the corn.

"They're in the fields!" Came the shout from a mounted officer on Alfred's left. He glanced over, watching the man gallop his horse back towards his troops only to be shot in the throat. He tumbled from his horse, blood spraying from his wound to paint the corn crimson, but the rest of the Union soldiers finally surged forward.

Squinting, Alfred could just barely make out the sway of the stalks and see the rebels moving through the corn. The fallen officer's words rang in Alfred's head, suddenly making sense to him.

Just as he whirled around to warn General Hooker, the blast of cannons shook the air with a deafening sound that shook the very earth beneath his feet, drowning out his warning. Hooker's horse reared up, baying in pain as rifle fire exploded into the air, and a shot nicking its ear, but Alfred lunged for the reins, ducking away from the pounding hooves.

The General shouted for Alfred to stop, but the blue-eyed man was already astride the horse, kicking its flanks hard to bring it into a gallop. The tall beast shrieked as Alfred pulled hard on the reins to force his steed to turn sharply, heading for McClellan's base of operations. He charged up the hill, past the cannon lines, well behind the front lines to the very back of the camp, and drew the horse to a halt with another sharp tug just before the Marines that guarded the Major General's tent.

"Tell McClellan to get out here right now!" Alfred bellowed, the heavy rumble of his voice leaving no room for compromise or disobedience.

One of the Marines nodded, and Alfred vaguely recognized him as one of the guards that had accompanied him on his run to Washington last year. Alfred noted the man looked as if he'd aged a decade; the smooth plain of his forehead was now marred with deep stress lines.

Alfred waited impatiently, fidgeting in the saddle, and his horse seemed just as antsy. The tall dun snorted, ears pinning back as he stomped his hooves until finally McClellan and two of his tacticians stepped out of the tent.

"Care to explain these?" Alfred produced the two sets of orders from his breast pocket, not bothering to dismount. One of the Marines stepped up to the take the orders, looking up at Alfred with a pensive glimmer in his dark eyes. Alfred wondered what the man made of the situation.

The air was tense, Alfred leering down at McClellan with the Major General starring back at him with reserve. He took the orders the Marine brought to him and glossed over them.

"What exactly do you want from me, Mr. America?"

"Don't give me that tone, Major General. I'm not one of your underlings." Alfred barked back, squaring his shoulders and tipping his head back some to glare down his nose at the stony-faced man.

"Of course not, sir." McClellan tipped his cap. "My apologies." After the quick atonement, he waved the papers. "Now then, what can I do for you, Mr. America?"

"Those orders are wrong. Why didn't you inform Hooker of the reserve Corps?"

McClellan cocked a brow, glancing over at the tactician on his left. The man merely shrugged, not offering any excuse for the mishap in communication. Alfred felt his lips curl back in a sneer at their indifference. How dare they dust such a blunder off their shoulders as it were nothing! His soldiers were dying out there because of their oversights!

"Hooker's troops have already been engaged and you can't even make up a decent excuse as to why you left them in the dark?" He roared, startling even the stoic Marines flanking the tent entrance. His horse flitted nervously beneath him, tossing its head.

"I didn't think Lee would move so boldly, but it only reaffirms my suspicions."

Alfred barely kept himself in the saddle. The raging desire to throttle McClellan was starting to become hard to control. More than hard, it was like fighting back instinct as the man turned his back to Alfred.

"What suspicions?" Alfred gritted out, eyes narrowed.

"That Lee has more troops than our scouts reported. I'm not uncomfortable saying he may have us evenly matched or even outnumbered." The Major General answered before beckoning Alfred over with a hand gesture, then vanishing back into his tent.

It proved to be more difficult than the blond would have anticipated, but Alfred drew in a calming breath, working his boiling rage down to a simmer before he dismounted Hooker's horse. He allowed one of the Marines to lead the tall steed away before following after McClellan and his tacticians with fists balled and jaw clenched tight as he entered the tent.

"Clearly there was some confusion with my orders. But I assure you, Mr. America, the President chose me to lead this army with confidence in my abilities." McClellan explained as he directed Alfred's attention to the large table set up in the center. On it was a map of the surrounding area, marked with the places that all of the Union troops were stationed and the theories about where all of Lee's troops were supposed to be. There were far more marks for the Confederates than Alfred could have ever imagined.

"Lincoln may have picked you, but that doesn't mean I would have, Major General."

"That's unfortunate, Mr. America. I hope that by the end of this battle, and when our victory is assured, that you will reconsider those words."

"Doubtful..." Alfred muttered under his breath as he looked over the map, blue eyes cold as he scanned each front.

"Why are the reserves placed so far back?" Alfred practically accused, tapping the spot on the map where there were two marks placed by their tent's location.

"Until I know how many troops Lee has hidden in the woods and his reinforcements I will not place two Corps in harms way if it means we may have to retreat." The Major General gusted an annoyed sigh. "And because one of my tacticians ever so wisely pointed out that it would be best to make sure my generals will agree with my orders." McClellan glanced back at one of his tacticians, his dark eyes smoldering with accusation.

Alfred couldn't bring himself to feel any sympathy for the man. Even if all of this blunder couldn't possibly be his fault, the blue-eyed man was still furious with him. He still needed someone to blame, and McClellan would have to learn to accept that responsibility with each battle that went awry. Not just from him, but from the public and the Union troops as well. Even from Lincoln.

"And why is this tent so far back? I had to ride far too long to get here."

"It's just how things have been laid out, Mr. America." One of the tacticians retorted defensively.

"Coward…" Alfred grumbled.

"Pardon, sir?" The man ever so foolishly prodded, stupidly tempting Alfred's wrath.

Alfred glared death at the man from beneath his furrowed brows, his steel-blue eyes flickering with burning hate.

"You heard me, _sir_. I said you're a coward." He retorted, voice eerily calm. McClellan cleared his throat, trying to casually draw Alfred's attention back to the map as he started announcing his idea for the battle plan. But Alfred was barely listening. The arrogant man across the table was trying to hold Alfred's intense glare, but quickly faltered. It was easy to see the raw anger, the animalistic fury behind Alfred's narrowed eyes. He wasn't hiding it; let this foolish man know the horrible wrath Alfred felt clawing at his heart, his very soul. Let him know the pain he'd endured, the blood he'd split, and just how far he would go to win; it was all written there in the blaze of cobalt eyes. This wasn't a game, as these men thought it might be. Pushing around pieces on a map like they were gods, dictating the fate of thousands of troops: troops Alfred had bled beside on the battlefield, troops Alfred would die to protect.

"Mr. America," McClellan said forcefully, tapping his index finger to the map. "There's a battle to win."

Alfred finally tore his gaze from the tactician, smirking dangerously when he heard the man exhale with immense relief. He doubted the tactician would dare invoke Alfred's anger again.

"Of course…" Alfred straightened up, lowering the brim of his service cap and setting a stony expression on his visage.

McClellan looked relieved, and seeing the furious nation beside him finally quell his ire seemed to dissipate some of the thick tension in the air. The Major General swallowed hard before redirecting all of their attentions towards the map once again.

"Now then, I think it would be best if we started another advance-" He slid his finger over the map towards a small road flanking the Dunker Church. "Here."

* * *

><p>"I can't fucking take this anymore!" Alfred roared as he stormed out of the tent. Failure after failure, brought to him as scattered reports of bloody massacres, for hours on end was driving him mad. The bitter arguing, the subtle, arrogant threats at every mention of a new battle plan, the ridiculous politics haunting every word had worn his nerves raw. Finally, after the report about General Burnside's utter failure at the bridge, Alfred had snapped.<p>

His heavy footfalls threw thick dust into the air as he rushed past the Marine guards and went straight for the horse lines. Hours and hours trapped in that tent with so many pigged-headed, bickering and entirely useless tacticians who probably hadn't lifted a rifle in twenty years was driving him insane. He had to get out, get away, get back to his troops. He had to find his way back to the bloodshed among the brave where it didn't matter who wanted what, or who got the credit for a victory, where all that mattered was instinct and anger. He needed a release. Alfred would have given anything for a rifle so he could rush to the field and blow his anger out the barrel of a gun.

"Mr. America, wait!" The guards shouted after him, but Alfred refused to stop. When one of the guards made the mistake of trying to halt him by force, grabbing his shoulder, Alfred turned on the man. Teeth bared in a savage snarl, and a furious roar tearing from his throat, Alfred's hand was around the Marine's throat instantly. This was his release. Alfred's rationale was blinded by fury. The guard choked as Alfred's fingers began to crush his windpipe with ease, his unnatural strength deadly.

He ignored the sudden arsenal of sidearms trained on him as he crushed the guard's throat. The rest of the tacticians and guards had apparently followed after him as well.

"Put him down!" One of the Marines shouted, glaring at Alfred with fear well concealed. The blond crushing his fellow Marine's throat didn't even look human with that horrifying expression on his face. His eyes were wide and wild, lips curled back like a rabid wolf's and the thick veins in his hands were standing out under his skin from the sheer force of his grip.

"Mr. America, stop this! Release him!" McClellan had followed after the furious blond when he'd burst from the tent. He stepped forward, one hand raised with a revolver trained at Alfred's head. "Now!"

Alfred glanced sidelong at the Major General, and McClellan faltered, lowering the revolver. The Marine caught in Alfred's vice kept desperately clawing at Alfred's hand, trying to pry the blond's fingers from around his windpipe, but Alfred's grip didn't relent.

A shot rang in the air, and Alfred finally released the Marine when he felt a bullet pierce his shoulder. It penetrated thick muscle to strike against his shoulder blade, making him wince. The adrenaline was pumping too hard in his veins to allow the pain to fully reach Alfred's nerves. He reached around his ribs to touch the tattered hole in his uniform, feeling the hot blood coat his fingertips, bringing him back to reality.

Blinking, he looked back at the man who'd shot him. It was the Marine he'd recognized from earlier. The man's revolver was still trained on him, a thin wisp of smoke rising from the barrel.

"Mr. America…" The man sounded torn, as if he could actually see into Alfred's heart and be witness to the horrible pain and rage rooted there so deeply. "What's happened to you?"

"I don't know…" Alfred whispered. Behind him, he could hear the unfortunate Marine panting, his chest rattling as he coughed and choked on the air suddenly returning to his lungs. Alfred bit his lip, looking down at the ground between his feet before turning away and walking to the horse lines without another word.

From the depths of his mind, a malicious snicker resounded.

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><p>The sun had risen high in the sky while he'd been away from the field, but was already starting to streak back down to the horizon, sending shimmering rays of light to shower the battlefield in pale beams. Standing atop the cresting hill before the Sunken Road, Alfred could see across the entire stretch of land that had once been gently rolling hills and cornfields. Far in the distance, he could even see the tall steeple of the Dunker Church, its cross a silhouette against the burning star.<p>

And all around him, the stench of death of nearly palpable.

He dared not look down to see the river of blood that had once been a road leading to the church. He didn't want to see the bodies of soldiers slumped against the fences or their corpses lining the shores of the blood river. Death had taken this place, leaving nothing in his wake as he'd ridden through the battlefield n his pale horse, his scythe uncaring of where it touched. Men, horses and even the once tall cornfields were dead. So much fire and heat from the blaze of cannons and guns had set the fields aflame, leaving only the burnt, black skeletons of the crops to rustles in the faint wind. Ash and smoke choked the air, staining the breeze that blew through Alfred's hair as he stared to the horizon.

He wouldn't look, couldn't bear it, didn't want to fall to his knees and weep for the thousands dead below him. Not even Dante's fifth circle of Hell could compare to the swamp of blood and bodies that seeped into the earth where the remaining soldiers were now calling 'Bloody Lane'.

But he couldn't stop the tears from falling as he watched the sun slowly sink in the sky, the wine-red rays it sent across the sky a perfect match to the river below and the blood that stained the uniform of every solider as they dragged the fallen from road.

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><p><strong><em>September 22, 1862<em>.**

Alfred braced his hands on the rim of the sink basin, leaning his weight on the fixture with an exhausted sigh. He hadn't slept in days. The images of the blood river were burned in his mind, haunting his every waking moment and chasing away sleep. The dead eyes of his soldiers, flung wide as Death's scythe had cut the life from them followed Alfred, watching him with accusation smoldering in their cloudy irises.

The blond shook his head, forcing the morbid thoughts back into the recesses of his mind. Twisting the faucet handle, he dipped his hands into the stream of water and splashed it on his face. He had to focus on getting cleaned up and getting ready for Lincoln's speech. His leader had shared only a few details with him, but from the sound of it, Lincoln was planning something huge, something that might get Europe to back down. Alfred swallowed hard, thinking of Arthur and their awful parting from the last meeting. He reached up, touching the damp spot where Arthur had struck him, and felt his heart ache with misery and longing.

There was no denying he still loved Arthur, even if the emerald-eyed man had decreed that they were nothing to each other, Alfred refused to believe it. He had always loved the older man, and always would. Alfred's shattered heart still clung to the last shreds of hope that maybe it was all just a misunderstanding. Surely Arthur hadn't meant what he'd said. He couldn't have. No, he loved Arthur. There was no way that love couldn't be reciprocated. He could fix this. Once this war was over, Alfred would go to him and tell him how he felt. Arthur had to understand how much Alfred wanted the emerald-eyed man to love him in return.

_"Don't bother…. They all hate you…."_

Alfred startled, fingers clutching at the lip of the sink as he looked around frantically. His wide blue eyes scanned over every polished surface of the small guest bathroom attached to his room in the White House. But there was nothing there besides the cold gleam of the tiles.

_"Especially Arthur. He can't stand you…"_

Alfred whirled back to face the mirror hanging on the wall before the sink. His own startled expression met him, making Alfred blink in fear and confusion. The blond could only stare in horror as the face in the mirror started grinning maliciously at him. The fear in those blues eyes was gone, replaced by cold cruelty.

"You know it's true."

Alfred gasped, his body beginning to tremble. Why had he said that? No. That was a mistake. He hadn't meant that!

"No!" he howled out desperately, feeling his eyes begin to moisten and sting.

_"You stupid, petulant child. You're so blind. Arthur hates you; he never wants to see you again. Or was that slap not enough to prove my point?"_

"No! He didn't mean it! I love him!"

_"You think that means anything? Lucifer loved God, yet he was still cast out of heaven. Face it: Arthur loathes the very idea of your existence. You are nothing to him."_

Alfred grit his teeth, feeling his burning anger begin to boil under his skin.

"You're wrong!" Alfred roared, white-knuckling the sink.

_"Am I? Europe is on my side, including Arthur. You're nothing more than an angry dog I'll put down. And they'll watch with approval as I break you. He'll love watching you crumble to the dirt at my feet_."

Something in Alfred snapped. There was nothing but blind rage turning his vision red, shutting down all rational thought, leaving him a vessel of furious agony.

He punched the mirror. He struck with enough force to shatter it, snapping through the wooden backboard and cracking the stone wall behind it. The glass splintered, leaving a web of massive cracks that distorted the dark image of himself.

"You're wrong," He choked out, voice constricted as his throat tightened and the tears began to trickle down his cheeks. "You're fucking wrong!"

_"You can't deny it forever."_ The broken shards laughed, a thick, malicious cackle that madeAlfred's ears hurt. _"How long can you last? Just look at you!"_

"Shut up!" Alfred drew back his arms and punched the mirror again, sending shards of glass flying and digging into his knuckles.

_"You're pathetic."_

"I said shut up!" He struck again, not caring if the glass embedded deeper into his flesh, scraping bone.

_"You're weak."_

"No! Stop it! I'm not weak!"

_"You're broken."_

Alfred couldn't respond, he couldn't even remember how to speak he was so angry, upset, so destroyed on the inside. He just kept hitting the mirror until the entire thing shattered into a thousand pieces, slicing open his hands, arms and face as the shards flew.

_"And when it's all over…"_

"No!" Alfred sobbed, desperately trying to block out the voice. His aching knuckles throbbed from the pain, just enough distraction to force Alfred's manic thoughts down. Shaking, he turned the faucet back on, trying to wash out the bleeding gouges.

Alfred screamed, knocking over the sink basin as he scrambled back from the horrifying scene. Blood was pouring out from faucet, bubbling and frothing as it spattered across the floor. Tiny rivets slithered between the tiles, forming a network of grisly veins around him. They were like rivers, each running with hot blood spilled without just cause. The images of Bloody Lane came back, flashing across his vision. The reek of death assaulted his senses, the phantom sight of the corpses, his soldiers sloshing through the gore. Sinking to his knees, Alfred choked on a sob, his breath hitching miserably as the glass cutting into his legs.

_"When you are dead…"_

"Stop…" Alfred sobbed into his bleeding hands, hiding his face from the voice, from the world, from Arthur.

_"The only thing left…"_

Alfred doubled over, crying out as his whole body was racked with trembling and nausea as the tears continued to cascade down his cheeks. His forehead was pressed to the bloodied tiles and the sharp glass, eyes squeezed shut tightly, unable to keep the river of pent up agony back behind the levee he had tried to hide it behind.

_"Will be me."_

And the voice was gone, leaving Alfred alone in the tiny bathroom, blood and glass pooling around his curled up form as he sobbed miserably.

* * *

><p><strong>September 17thwent down and still is considered the bloodiest day in American history. To this date no battle has ever claimed so many American lives. This is the Battle of Antietam, sometimes called the Battle of Sharpsburg. In a span of 10 hours almost 23,000 casualties occurred. This one battle was equivalent to about half the number of casualties in the Revolutionary War, which lasted 8<em>years<em>. In just 10_hours_.**

**The Dunker Church belonged to German Christians, and the soldiers called the road nearby Sunken Road, but its original name was Hog Trough Road. It dipped down between two cornfields and a huge skirmish occurred here. By the end, the road was literally filled like a river with corpses and blood. Horses couldn't even cross it, and soldiers had a horribly difficult time pulling the dead from the road. Ever since then it's been called Bloody Lane.**

**The heat of the guns actually did burn up the cornfields and left them barren all around by the end. The battle was an absolute mess. McClellan's cautious nature made it so Lee's army could move to block every assault and slowly move back to Maryland without being entirely crushed. Soldiers couldn't see through the thick cornfields and had to engage in close combat at many phases, beating each other to death with their rifles or stabbing the enemy with their bayonets.**

**Poorly executed orders disorientated the Union Generals, making them move their troops about blindly as they fought to try to make sense of McClellan's scattered orders. General Hooker's troops were the first to engage and the only Corps to move forward at the time. McClellan didn't want to move the three full Corps he had stationed to engage all at once, believing Lee had them outnumbered. He never made use of his cavalry scouts to confirm or disprove his suspicions either, relying only on the preliminary scout reports. Even then he hardly felt inclined to trust them. His tacticians proved to be argumentative and it's said that one of them even threatened McClellan when the Major General suggested moving the reserve Corps into battle. He supposedly warned McClellan that he should watch whom he ordered around, as the troops would follow their commanding General, not him.**

**Lincoln dismissed McClellan after the huge blunder.**

**A few days later, Lincoln unveiled the first part of his Emancipation Proclamation on September 22, 1862. He had been waiting to announce it until a major Union victory had been attained to dissuade Europe from siding with the Confederacy. Antietam was the best he could get considering all of the major failures the Union had suffered on the battlefield so far.**

**The biblical stuff:**

**For those of you who have no idea...**

**Death is one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse. He supposedly rides in on pale horse, carrying his scythe and followed by Hades as he reaps 1/4 of the Earth. **

**In Dante's Inferno, Virgil leads Dante through the nine circle or levels of Hell. The 5th is the swampy river Styx where the bodies and corpses of the wrathful thrash and gurgle in the waters. It's a very interesting read. I highly recommend it, even if you're not religious at all (I'm not. But the imagery is amazing)**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

**Hi lovey readers! Some of you may have noticed Shatter was delayed a week. Not going to lie, there were plenty of plot/writing difficulties for me to overcome with this chapter. So I sincerely apologize for the delay for those you who actually have this to light up your drab middle of the week. ^^ Shatter will go back to its usual two week updates on Wednesdays. :)**

**On to reviews~**

**ChocoVanille: *hands you a tissue* No , no! Don't cry, sweetie! :P  
><strong>

**Moruken no Ken: Oh absolutely! It's actually a wonder how he's stayed sane this long, really.**

**Just Emz For Now: The voice is in his head, no one else can hear it. It's Confederate!Alfred, basically his self-recognized dark side. **

**Oz the Magician: *Pats back* Don't cry love. He does have people that love him, Alfred just can't see it, and let's face it, they're not so great at showing it either. Poor baby!**

**TG: Oh he will need more than bandages for that broken heart! ;~;**

**SirenShadow: Oh certainly! By far he is my favorite character to write for a little relief from the angst! Oh, how fun! I hope you had a wonder BC day! We should totally have state days down here! That'd be fun! ^^ And don't feel out of place, your reviews are always so marvelous and thoughtful and I get incredibly giddy just at the thought of them! Curious though, meat as in what? Like meat like more detail, or meat as in more events actually happening? Or did I miss that completely? ;P lol. And but lost on the pairing? Good. Ambiguous is what I aim for in everything I do. xD Oh and certainly! Writing the history notes at the bottom is actually more fun than writing the actual story! I'm always disappointed when the history notes at the bottom of my fics isn't as long as I hoped. So yes, you can certainly, in fact, almost always, expect a good lesson with every fic. :)**

**xLoveableItalianx: Aww, thank you lovey. Always good to see a good dark fic lover coupled with an interest in history!**

**Ahro: Baby girl, I'm so excited that you're reading this! Hehe, You'll get to seeing this eventually. *hugs***

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><p><strong><em>June 28, 1863.<em>**

"This will be the fifth failure in under a year, Abe." Alfred observed, his cheek pressed against bruised knuckles while he watched his leader sign documents. He was leaning on the edge of Lincoln's desk, tiredly observing him on his respite after Chancellorsville. The massive gash he had sustained on his stomach from a quick Confederate lance was still healing.

"If our generals would use the army, I would not have to keep passing it on to the next hand." Lincoln shook his head, scanning over a thick sheet of parchment. "I can only hope Meade will be willing to engage Lee. I fear another defeat as devastating as Chancellorsville will break the Union resolve."

At the mention of the loss, Alfred felt the muscles around his gash twitch, as if his body remembered the feeling of defeat as it had the physical wound. He tenderly touched the cut through his freshly cleaned shell jacket, shocks of pain blistering around the damaged flesh.

"We're stronger than that," Alfred insisted, his hand still on his injury. "We won't crumble, even if Lee has grown bold enough to try and take Pennsylvania."

_"__But not you. You're about ready to fall to pieces, right, boy?" _The voice taunted, a cocky whisper in Alfred's ear. It was almost as if he could feel the rank breath on his ear, it rang so clearly in his mind.

"I'm glad to hear that from you, Alfred. Positivism is a powerful ally in these dark times."

"Of course."

_"__Keep lying. Go on; pretend you're not cracked and ready to shatter." _The voice mentally scathed.

Alfred gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles began to quiver from the sheer force of exertion. But he simply nodded to his leader, suddenly rising to his feet. Lincoln shot him a curious look, wondering what had prompted Alfred's sudden movement.

"Alfred?"

"My apologies, Abe, but I think I'll turn in early tonight."

"Ah," Lincoln mumbled thoughtfully, his calm smile betraying the worried shimmer in his dark eyes. "I think that would be best for you. Sleep well."

"Thank you." Alfred dismissed politely, pivoting on his heel to stride out of Lincoln's office, every muscle knotted in acute tension. Shutting the heavy mahogany doors quietly behind proved to be difficult. His hands shook from smoldering anger at his own weakness. It made resisting the temptation to throw all his strength into slamming the doors shut a trying task.

_"__Weakling_." The voice chided when the blue-eyed blond finally managed to gingerly close the doors.

"Shut up!" Alfred snarled back, eyes narrowed.

"Sir?"

Alfred whirled around; panic suddenly flaring in his cobalt irises. A servant carrying hand towels stood just behind him, a fearful expression on her visage. Her eyes darted from Alfred's balled fists to his intense stare with unease.

"Pardon. I hadn't realized there was anyone else in the hall but me." The young nation offered, straightening up and squaring his shoulders. He imagined he likely looked quite disheveled. His shell jacket was open, rumpled from leaning over Lincoln's desk. He was without his service cap as well and his hair uncombed. It made his cheeks flush with embarrassment. He tried to at least look the part of a strong, unbreakable Union in the presence of the White House staff, but these days it was getting harder and harder to hide it. The weight of war left him apathetic to personal appearance on most days it seemed.

"No, my apologies, Mr. America. I didn't mean to startle you." The maid bowed her head, stepping away from Alfred. She darted away with flighty steps, leaving Alfred alone in the hall, physically, at least.

_"__Even she could see that you're losing it, boy."_

"Go to Hell!" Alfred roared aloud, dispelling the voice, and storming to his room with a tremendous ire burning in his heart_._The blue-eyed man slammed the door shut, nearly ripping the hinges from the frame. A branching fissure shot up the tall door, leaving a web of cracks running the vertical length of the wood. But Alfred was beyond caring for the abused door. He ungracefully flopped onto the bed, not bothering to undress as he hid his face in the firm pillow. Uncaring of how he further sullied his uniform, Alfred lay there until his anger subsided enough to allow sleep to claim his tired body and wrecked mind.

* * *

><p><strong><em>July 1, 1863.<em>**

Perched atop his tall sable-brown warhorse, Alfred looked down the slope of McPherson's Ridge with distant blue eyes. His mind was far away from the approaching Confederate forces the Union scouts had reported earlier. Milling about the hill were Buford's cavalry, all mounted, their rifles across their laps. The vapor of the horses' breaths left white puffs dancing about the crest as the morning wore on in darkness. Only a narrow sliver of the sun peekedout over the ridges that surrounded the small Pennsylvaniatown of Gettysburg to the south.

It was a relatively peaceful place, surrounded by beautiful green hills and wide plains. The little town at the base of the ridges sat innocently, waiting for the sun to rise as if it were just another day.

But Alfred felt something else stir inside of him. It was a deep, strange ache, one that tugged at his heart in a way that reminded him of the first time he'd laid eyes upon the battlefield at Bull Run Creek. It was like an instinct, nestled deep in his heart, buried beneath the years of watching what should have been an easy war dragging on. It left him with a sense of knowing; he understood that this place was something more than a tiny town with beautiful hills and unfinished railroads. This place left a gaping rift in his heart that terrified him because he knew that it wouldn't be beautiful for much longer.

While Alfred's thoughts were scattered, darting from one prior battle to the next, strategies and politics, he didn't notice one of the cavaliers approach him. Only when the soldier cleared his throat obviously did Alfred snap to attention, dispersing the cloud of jumbled thoughts for a moment to focus on the cavalier.

"Mr. America, sir?"

Alfred tipped back his service cap, silently acknowledging the man as he straightened up. His blue gaze roamed to the other man's insignias, noting he was an officer.

"The rebels are approaching fast. Ourforces won't be here in time to meet them, sir." The man was clearly worried, his hands shifting nervously on the reins. The flighty horse stamping its feet beneath him easily betrayed what little confidence the man could muster up in his words.

"Then we'll have to hold them off. We'll give the army time to reach the high ground south of here."

"But sir, there's no way we can hold Lee's army back alone."

"We just need a bit more time," Alfred insisted, turning his horse with a sharp tug of the reigns as the dreary instinct left a phantasmal nausea plaguing him.

"How long, sir?"

Glancing back, Alfred didn't bother to speak. The haunted look in his eyes spoke volumes, making the cavalier shift uncomfortably as he met icy blue gaze. Swallowing hard, the man looked away after only a moment and nodded.

"Of course, sir. I understand." The soldier gave a brief salute, turning his horse with trembling hands. "I will inform Buford."

"He already knows." Alfred mumbled, letting his gaze fall back to the slowly rising sun as it began to peek above the crest of the tall ridges. If the man heard him, he didn't acknowledge it. Alfred heard only the clatter of hooves as the cavalier left him alone to silently lament the inward feeling of death hovering just above him. And just as he slowly came to the realization of what this battle could mean: the difference between a Union defeat or victory, a shot rang out in the silence. It shattered the calm as the first gray coats of the Confederate army appeared at the edge of the plains.

* * *

><p><strong><em>July 2, 1863.<em>**

Shots echoed all around Alfred as he charged his steed up the rocky crag. The jagged stones were slick with blood, but the horse managed to keep a solid footing as Alfred tucked against the massive beast's neck. A sharp tug drew the horse to a halt at the pointed top of the stones where Alfred could see out across the stony battlefield aptly named Devil's Den.

The dead, in mixed coats of gray and blue, lay about the rocks, their bodies strewn awkwardly between the boulders. Moss and rock were stained in maroon, littered with bullet holes and gouges made by bayonets and sabers.

The dying light of the setting sun cast long shadows and fiery orange beams across the battlefield, setting it aglow with a hellish light.

Alfred's horse suddenly reared up, baying in terror as a bullet struck between its front hooves. Alfred barely managed to catch hold of the reins and steady the tall steed with a rough hand. Staying atop the rock formation was too risky, Alfred rationalized, turning his horse to go back down the bloodied slope. He could find a safer place to pick off the Confederates that continued to pour through the valleys between the craggy spires of Devil's Den.

But as his back turned, a volley of shots sang into the air. One struck Alfred in the side, slicing through the flesh to clip his rib. A startle cry of pain escaped past his gritted teeth as he flinched. While another struck his horse's back leg, sending the massive beast crashing to the ground, shrieking in agony as the metal ball cracked the thick bone.

Dazed by the pain, Alfred toppled from the saddle, his horse crashed down over top of him, pinning him to the blood-soaked rocks. The wounded animal thrashed, jarring Alfred and scraping his wound into the pointed stones, tearing the gash open further with each violent kick.

Alfred's mind raced, jaunted by spikes of mind-hazing adrenaline as it rushed through his system. He choked on the pain as the bloody rubble dug deeper and deeper into his flank, sending shocks of agony from the epicenter of the gunshot wound. The ball had pierced through flesh and deflected off a now cracked bone. A few inches over and it would have struck Alfred's lung. A lucky shot, but that was no comfort right was still left struggling to pull himself out from under his horse.

Mustering up every ounce of his strength before it could bleed out of him, Alfred pushed on his flailing horse. The muscles in his arms burned with the effort to shove the half-ton beast off his crushed legs. The horse continued to shriek and struggle, lashing out in agony even as Alfred barely managed to pull his bruised legs free. Scrambling away, the blue-eyed soldier clutched at his wound, breath hitching miserably at the sharp sting that flared up with each contraction of his chest. Dragging himself up on a large rock jutting up, its base splashed with crimson, Alfred got a chance to see the damage done by the bullet and the fall.

His shell jacket had been torn open, the entire side stitching ripped and in tatters. Beneath, his flesh was raw, having been skinned away by the porous, jagged rocks. Bits of stone clung to the sticky blood oozing its way down his flank. The deep gash left by the bullet was mangled, though much deeper than the rough tears that had grated the skin away. With trembling hands he tried dusting away the larger chunks of rock lodged in his side, leaving him hissing from the burning sting of the sharp debris.

Shouts and more gunfire drew his attention back to the hellscape below him. A surge of gray-coated soldiers swarmed over the rocky ground, their bayonets trained forward. Alfred watched with hazed eyes, shifting to get a better look at the battlefield. Union soldiers hunkered down behind massive boulders were firing from behind the safety of their blood splattered rock shields. It wouldn't be enough, Alfred knew. From his vantage point he could see the wave of rebels continuing to flood the narrow valleys between the massive boulders that encompassed the ridge. It would have been impossible for the small force of Union troops, all scattered across the rough terrain, to hold back the rebel advance.

Alfred was forced to dive to the ground as a group of the gray-coated soldiers noticed him and his wounded horse, opening fire on them. The tall boulders deflected most of the rounds, but a few ricocheted far too close for Alfred's comfort. The only relief was that one seemed to strike his horse's head, finally putting the poor beast out of its misery.

_Another casualty thanks to you._ The voice growled lowly in his mind. But Alfred forced it back, preferring to focus on the gaping feeling of loss instead of the malice in those words.

The blue-eyed man reached his hand out, patting the big horse's still flank. His hand stilled a moment, and Alfred swallowed down a sadness that welled up in his heart. The big animal had been his chosen mount since before the war began, surviving battle after battle. Being brought down here, into this rocky hell, it just wasn't fitting for a noble beast Alfred had once loved and cared for.

"I'm sorry, old friend. Thank you for all you've done." The blue-eyed soldier whispered, knotting his fingers in the sable-brown mane for a moment before smoothing his hand down to the pommel of the twisted saddle. Leaning closer, he unclipped his rifle from the fallen steed's saddle clasp, wincing with each movement that ripped open the tender wounds along his side.

Panting he managed to pull the rifle to his chest before bracing on his elbows. He dragged himself to the edge of the boulder, keeping himself pressed flat to the rocks as gunshot continued to fly over his head and the screams of the wounded and dying filled his ears from the valley below.

Mindful of his wound, he managed to slowly climb his way down the slope, still bleeding, and wincing each time his foot slipped, jarring his side. At the bottom, a pair of battered Union soldiers were waiting, their faces covered in smears of gunpowder and dappling sprays of blood.

"Mr. America, are you hurt, sir?" One asked, grasping the nation's shoulder. Alfred was quick to wrench away.

"I'm fine," Alfred assured with obvious annoyance, but continued to clutch his wounded side. "Call the retreat. We'll never hold this awful place."

The soldiers nodded, dashing away to inform their commanding officer. Alfred was about to follow, but stopped short as a loud boom shook the air, making rocks tumble down from the jagged, bloodied spires. A moment later artillery shells assaulted Devil's Den, blasting open the craggy faces of the towering boulders. The splintering of rocks, explosive showers of gravel and dust, and the cries of those unfortunate enough to be struck by the lethal flying rock slivers and cannon shot filled the stagnant air. The cannons continued to blast away at the defensive line of Union troops, throwing sprays of blood and loose rocks into the air, raining down in a grisly, pelting shower.

Alfred lowered the brim of his service cap as a lull in the firing opened up, before dashing to the relative safety of his firing line. He slid in past a pair of soldiers raising their rifles to fire, Wristbreaker bouncing against his hip as he jogged to stop.

An officer on horseback rode up to him, his varnish roan steed tossing its head.

"Sir, I'm glad to have found you so quickly!" The man addressed, offering his hand for Alfred to climb up onto the horse behind him. "General Meade has requested your presence at headquarters."

"Now?" Alfred snarled in disbelief. "We're about to lose Devil's Den!"

"I'm sorry, sir! He insisted it was urgent!" The man shouted above the noise, another volley of artillery shells flying overhead. Alfred was about to protest again, but he was nearly knocked off his feet as the ground rumbled beneath him. A spray of blood speckled his face and painted the reddish horse before him with scarlet droplets.

"Fine." Alfred refused the officer's hand, choosing to grab the saddle and swing himself up. It made him yelp in pain as a fresh spurt of blood oozed from his wound, having been agitated with the sudden, harsh movement.

The moment Alfred settled, a round of Confederate fire rushed past them, cutting down more of the crumbling Union line. Stray shots nearly caught Alfred again, but the officer didn't need another drop of motivation to spur his horse into a gallop towards the grassy plains leading away from the Hell that was Devil's Den.

* * *

><p><strong><em>July 3, 1863.<em>**

The broad skies above had opened up with rain as Alfred sat mounted astride his new horse; the tall beast was a startling white that stood perfectly calm beneath him. The occasional swish of the gelding's tail or a snort was the only indicator that the warhorse was more than an ivory statue silhouetted against the gray sky.

The cascading water had quickly soaked Alfred's tattered uniform and his bandages. It left a cold ache in his bones that made his usually limber muscles feel stiff and weary. The falling rain marked the third day of the atrocious battle, and Alfred was pushing his limits to even stay upright. Between the delicate shifts of terrain advantage, Alfred had been rushing from one battle to the next, Meade's weapon to fill in for breaking lines. He knew it was important to keep the three major ridges of Cemetery Hill, Cemetery Ridge and Culp's Hill from falling to the Confederates, but not even he could keep them secured from the relentless attacks. Thankfully, both flank attacks had failed to reach the Union stronghold just south of Gettysburg.

But there was something eerie about the silence lying beneath the rain on the open plains. It left Alfred feeling unease in the pit of his stomach. Far in the distance, well outside the range of any cannon, stood a long line of Confederate soldiers. The bright red and white flags of the rebel forces snapped in the occasional harsh gust of wind whipped up by the storm. There was a palpable tension in the air. It bore down on Alfred as a blinding flash of lighting split the sky.

A crashing roll of thunder, and the Confederate line began to move. They marched forward at standard pace, not charging as Alfred had suspected.

_So Meade was right. Lee is throwing everything he has into one final charge. He couldn't outflank us, so now he'll attack our front_

Alfred gathered up the reins, turning his horse away as the barking orders to fire the Union cannons drifted over the sound of the rain. As he passed the lines, the artillery fire opened up, raining death down upon the marching Confederates. There was nothing he could do here besides morbidly watch the shots lay waste to his enemies and send their blood into the air. Alfred had seen enough of that to last a lifetime.

He walked his horse back towards the open plains on the other side of the ridge, where it was wide and free of slaughter. A small patch of tall trees at the base of the hill seemed inviting enough. Alfred wanted to be alone right now, away from the death that haunted him at every turn, away from the orders, away from the misery he felt clinging to his heart like a thick fog. He just wanted to be away from everything.

His horse seemed to sense this, and when Alfred's hands slipped from the reins, the white gelding continued to bear him towards the trees. It stayed quiet, the moist grass and the sound of the pouring rain muffled the soft thud of its hooves, leaving Alfred to his thoughts.

As they passed beneath the canopy, the rain couldn't reach through the thick leaves entirely, faltering the steady rhythm of the cascading water. Startled, the weary soldier looked up, his hazy eyes blinking in confusion for a moment.

The blue-eyed man paused his gelding with a light tug on the reins. His eyes traced the lines of the three trunks, quietly observing as he tried to ease his fogged mind. Too tired to keep his vision focused, he ignored the details in the shadows, and merely attempted to quell the nausea in his gut.

"You got a dumb look on your face, boy."

Alfred was suddenly alert, his cobalt eyes focused and intense as he looked around again. It sounded so much like the voice in his head, only now it echoed as if carrying through physical air. There was a certain roughness to it, one that seemed even more real than the shadowy taunts he constantly dealt with within his mind.

_"_Expecting someone?"

From the shadows enclosing the ring of trees, the blue-eyed soldier saw movement. A figure stepped out with a long-legged stride. His gloved hand brushed away a low hanging branch, dripping water to bead on his broad shoulders as he stalked closer. A deeply rooted fear shimmered in Alfred's eyes, leaving him trembling astride his horse. Even the stoic beast seemed riled about the new figure's sudden appearance. Its ears pinned back, and the gelding stomped its fore-hooves nervously.

"Y-you-"

_"_I'm glad you recognize me, boy. Good to see I still put the fear in your heart not even God could strike into most men." The doppelganger's dark, steel blue eyes were narrowed in sadistic amusement, clearly enjoying Alfred's initial expression of fear.

Alfred's breathing had turned ragged, his chest heaving with the breath that refused to sate his lungs. It was terrifying, the blond realized, staring down at the source of his innermost torment, the very man who could see into his heart and exploit every ounce of agony he could ever feel. It was haunting to look upon a mirror image of himself and be afraid.

"How?" Alfred whispered, barely able to form the words as fear choked him, leaving what little breath he could catch beneath a stopper of pent up emotional anxiety. Alfred took in the details as he dismounted his horse, eyes wide in shock. The figure resembled him so closely, an exact match to the shadow in the mirror. There was only one detail that didn't quite match Alfred. The figure wore dark gray, instead of blue on his uniform, and his was pristine, looking freshly pressed where Alfred's was in shreds.

"How? How what? How am I here?" The gray-coated phantom crossed his arms before his chest, glaring down his nose at the other blond.

_"_You can't be here. You can't be real!"

_"_Not real," The doppelganger mused aloud with a smug grin. "That so?" He took a step forward laughing maliciously when Alfred stepped back. "You don't seem so confident in that."

Alfred nervously bit at his bottom lip. Of course he was sure. There was no way the terrible voice in his head could be manifest before him. Every logical fiber of the blue-eyed man's mind screamed that this was all just an illusion. It had to be. The figure before him was as much a figment of his macabre imagination as the face in the mirror that mocked him.

"This isn't real." Alfred repeated, trying to assure himself as he repeated that phrase in his mind like a mantra.

"You seem to enjoy lying, boy." The figure took a step towards Alfred, his boot crushing the moist grass beneath his heel.

"You lie to your leader," another step.

"You lie to your soldiers," and another.

"You even lie to yourself." And once more to bring himself mere inches from Alfred's face.

"A foundation built on lies is quick to crumble. But you're already broken, aren't you?" His fetid breath reeked of death as it ghosted across Alfred's face, rustling his damp hair. The blue-eyed soldier had stood his ground, desperate to convince himself that this wasn't real. This horrible figure with an aura like the white horseman was nothing but a hallucination caused by fatigue. Every step had shaken Alfred's wilting confidence until it finally shied away at the final, ghastly accusation. The flinch that accompanied Alfred's faltering resolve made the doppelganger grin victoriously, a smug scoff escaping past his sneer.

"No! I-I don't know…"

"Oh, but I do. You're pathetic. You're weak, and you're alone now. Your men are dying by the thousands out on those fields. And my rebels are surrounding them, corralling them like lambs to the slaughter." The figure was quick to step back a sword-length, his hand moving to his hip where a large saber rested in an intricate scabbard. It was an exact match to Wristbreaker's.

Instantly, Alfred went for said blade, drawing the massive saber from its sheath despite the fear making him tremble. He wasn't going to back down. He wouldn't let an illusion best him. Alfred wouldn't fall.

"You're willing to fight me like a man now, coward?"

"I'm n-no coward!"

"You've been hiding behind your soldiers for two years now, boy. That's cowardice." The figure brandished the blade, flourishing the decorated hilt across his knuckles.

Alfred grit his teeth, anger beginning to boil up to replace fear. It bubbled beneath his skin, searing every nerve to life. He was still exhausted from the battle at Devil's Den and the wounds that littered his body from the three days of skirmishing, but he refused to back down.

The figure chuckled darkly, his piercing eyes narrowing again with dangerous amusement to match the wicked grin that spread across his visage. He taunted Alfred with a crude 'come hither' gesture.

With a snarl, Alfred charged forward, lashing out with the massive saber. His rebel self easily sidestepped, letting Alfred fumble as his wide swing met only empty air. A sharp blow from the pommel of his foe's saber jabbed into his back sent Alfred stumbling. He winced, feeling the bruise, sure to form, pulse in agony.

_How the hell? He's not even real!_ Alfred observed, wincing as he slowly straightening up. _That shouldn't have hurt. It's impossible!_

"Sloppy." The figure taunted again, standing with the blade at his hip. It flared another wave of rage in Alfred and he lunged again, using his unnatural strength to swing the heavy saber in a downward arch with all his might.

And as before, Alfred missed as his enemy easily danced away from the reach of Wristbreaker's lethal edge. The blade dug into the ground, churning up soil and wet grass into the air.

"I knew you were a tad slow up here-" Alfred's rebel self tapped his temple, bouncing on the balls of his feet with a limber roll of his shoulders. "But I expected more out of the rest of you." And he suddenly lunged, barreling his shoulder into Alfred's chest before the blue-eyed nation had a chance to duck out of the way.

Alfred hit the ground with a heavy thud, feeling the breath rush from his lungs and Wristbreaker fly from his grip. He gasped for breath, feeling his chest convulse from the sudden loss.

That hit had been real. No illusion could bowl the blue-coated man off his feet with enough force to wind him. But it couldn't be. The malignant image in the mirror that haunted his mind couldn't possibly be beating him physically now!

_No! I'm hallucinating! I have to be dreaming! It has to be something else. This can't be happening!_

All of his previous wounds from the earlier battles flaring up with an acute ache pinned the blue-eyed soldier. As he struggled to catch his breath, the figure approached with a cocky grin. Alfred snarled up at him, moving to try and get back up, but a boot stomping on his throat effectively halted that endeavor.

Alfred choked, his hand scrambling to push the heavy weight off his neck. And that was real too.

"Look at you. You're a fool challenging me. And now it's my time to rise."

The blue-eyed soldier glared death up at his rebel self with a fury unmatched by any other emotion currently raging inside the blond. He thrashed and struggled, trying to free his airways. If he could just catch a breath, he could get back up, he could keep fighting, he could prove he wasn't weak! But the more he struggled, the more force was applied to his throat.

"You've got no one to save you. Arthur crafts ships for my rebels, and he wants you dead. Francis too. None of them care if you live or die at this point; they just want this war to end so they can get back to making money off this land. And I'm going to give them that. I'll crush you, and in a few years, you'll be completely forgotten."

The rebel grinned wider, seeing the fear begin to creep back into Alfred's eyes even as the haze of darkness began to cloud his irises.

"You know it's true, don't you, boy?"

Alfred let his lips quiver, no words escaping him as dark spots began to burst across his vision. His hands had ceased to claw at the boot crushing his windpipe, having lost their usual strength.

"You. Are. Nothing."

The figure enunciated each word with pointed venom, watching as Alfred flinched at each sharp syllable. No matter how much Alfred wanted to deny it, the boot crushing his throat was there. The awful taunting was there. And the doppelganger was no illusion. Everything was real.

The gray-coated rebel chuckled, observing with sick satisfaction as Alfred's eyes finally rolled back, and his body went limp. He stepped back without another word as the rain picked up, beginning to dribble down the canopy. He vanished as Alfred's thoughts slipped away from his mind and darkness took him away.

_I know._

* * *

><p><strong>History:<strong>

**June 28****th ****marked the day that Lincoln appointed Meade as commander of the army. Meade would be the fifth in under a year to take command after a series of overly cautious generals that weren't****using the army to full potential. As a result, General Lee managed to secure a variety of Confederate victories by simply deploying his troops properly. One of which was the devastating battle of Chancellorsville. But it was there that Stonewall Jackson was finally killed after complications from his injuries.**

**July 1st through the 3rd encompassed the historic Battle of Gettysburg. The tiny Pennsylvania town and surrounding area became a soggy battlefield after heavy rains. On the first day, only small skirmishes occurred, mostly by small units and minor cavalry deployments. The first shot of Gettysburg is credited to a Lt. Jones at around 7:30 am. A marker currently stands where he claims he was when he fired his rifle at the first grey-coated solider that came into his view.**

**The second day saw the majority of infantry battles and artillery fire. Most of the Union and Confederate army arrived early that day or the late night prior. The Union chose to defend the valuable high ground just south of the town. Lee instructed that both of the Union's flanks were to be attacked, rather than charging the front. On the left side was Devil's Den and a series of small valleys made by massive boulders and craggy ground. The Union held it for quite a bit before a Texan infantry group reinforced the rebel lines and drove the Union out with the help of heavy cannon fire. There were many battles around that area and it was nick named the Valley of Death, but it was originally just called Wheatfield.**

**On the third day, the infamous failure known as Pickett's Charge occurred. Lee was frustrated that the Union flanks hadn't crumbled and decided to march on their frontlines instead. The Confederates marched, rather than charged the ridge, taking massive casualties from heavy infantry fire and artillery. At least 50% of the Confederates became casualties before they even made it into charging distance. The charge was massive though, and it was called the high mark of the Confederacy. It was the closest the rebels had come to winning the war. A Union defeat at Gettysburg would have destroyed Union moral and crippled the army. It likely would have allowed Lee's Pennsylvania campaign to continue onwards as well.**

**But on the evening of July 2****_nd_****_,_****Meade predicted Lee might try something like this and fortified the fronts. It very likely gave the Union their victory.**

**Gettysburg is the largest battle of the war (not the bloodiest, that's Antietam's), spanning three full days. There were hundreds of skirmishes, many cavalry battles and the heaviest use of cannons since the start of the Civil War.**


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